AN-INCIDENT 


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[Page  17 

'YOU'RE  HANGING  YOURSELF,  BOY,'  THE  SHERIFF  SAID" 


AN    INCIDENT 

and  Other  Happenings 


By 


SARAH  BARNWELL  ELLIOTT 

Author  of 

"The  Durket  Sperret"  "Jerry"  etc. 


With   Illustrations   by 
W/nSmedley 


NEW   YORK    AND    LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

J899 


Copyright,  1899,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

&emorg  of 

MY  MOTHER 
CHARLOTTE  BULL  BARNWELL  ELLIOTT 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

AN  INCIDENT 3 

Miss  MARIA'S  REVIVAL 43 

FAITH  AND  FAITHFULNESS 61 

AN  EX-BRIGADIER 87 

SQUIRE  KAYLEY'S  CONCLUSIONS 123 

WITHOUT  THE  COURTS 149 

MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S  CANDY- STEW 163 

BALDY 253 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"YOU'RE  HANGING  YOURSELF,  BOY,' THE  SHERIFF  SAID"    Frontispiece 

'  MORRIS,     STANDING     OVER     HIS     FALLEN     FOE,     LOOKED 

ABOUT   HIM   AS   IF   DAZED  " Facing  p.  34 


AN  INCIDENT 


AN   INCIDENT 


IT  was  an  ordinary  frame  house  standing  on 
brick  legs,  and  situated  on  a  barren  knoll,  which, 
because  of  the  dead  level  of  marsh  and  swamp 
and  deserted  fields  from  which  it  rose,  seemed  to 
achieve  the  loneliness  of  a  real  height.  The  south 
and  west  sides  of  the  house  looked  out  on  marsh 
and  swamp ;  the  north  and  east  sides  on  a  wide 
stretch  of  old  fields  grown  up  in  broom-grass. 
Beyond  the  marsh  rolled  a  river,  now  quite  be- 
yond its  banks  with  a  freshet ;  beyond  the  swamp, 
which  was  a  cypress  swamp,  rose  a  railway  em- 
bankment leading  to  a  bridge  that  crossed  the 
river.  On  the  other  two  sides  the  old  fields 
ended  in  a  solid  black  wall  of  pine-barren.  A 
roadway  led  from  the  house  through  the  broom- 
grass  to  the  barren,  and  at  the  beginning  of 
this  road  stood  an  out-house,  also  on  brick  legs, 
which,  save  for  a  small  stable,  was  the  sole  out- 
building. One  end  of  this  house  was  a  kitchen, 
the  other  was  divided  into  two  rooms  for  ser- 
vants. There  were  some  shattered  remnants 
of  oak-trees  out  in  the  field,  and  some  chimneys 

3 


AN    INCIDENT 

overgrown  with  vines,  showing  where  in  happier 
times  the  real  homestead  had  stood. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  February ;  a  clear 
afternoon  drawing  towards  sunset ;  and  all  the 
flat,  sad  country  was  covered  with  a  drifting  red 
glow  that  turned  the  field  of  broom-grass  into  a 
sea  of  gold  ;  that  lighted  up  the  black  wall  of 
pine-barren,  and  shot,  here  and  there,  long  shafts 
of  light  into  the  sombre  depths  of  the  cypress 
swamp.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the 
dwelling-house,  though  the  doors  and  windows 
stood  open ;  but  every  now  and  then  a  negro 
woman  came  out  of  the  kitchen  and  looked 
about,  while  within  a  dog  whined. 

Shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  this  woman 
would  gaze  across  the  field  towards  the  ruin ; 
then  down  the  road ;  then,  descending  the  steps, 
she  would  walk  a  little  way  towards  the  swamp 
and  look  along  the  dam  that,  ending  the  yard  on 
this  side,  led  out  between  the  marsh  and  the 
swamp  to  the  river.  The  over -full  river  had 
backed  up  into  the  yard,  however,  and  the  line 
of  the  dam  could  now  only  be  guessed  by  the 
wall  of  solemn  cypress  -  trees  that  edged  the 
swamp.  Still,  the  woman  looked  in  this  direc- 
tion many  times,  and  also  towards  the  railway 
embankment,  from  which  a  path  led  towards  the 
house,  crossing  the  head  of  the  swamp  by  a 
bridge  made  of  two  felled  trees. 

But  look  as  she  would,  she  evidently  did  not 
find  what  she  sought,  and  muttering  "  Lawd ! 
Lawd  !"  she  returned  to  the  kitchen,  shook  the 

4 


AN    INCIDENT 

tied  dog  into  silence,  and  seating  herself  near  the 
fire  gazed  sombrely  into  its  depths.  A  covered 
pot  hung  from  the  crane  over  the  blaze,  making 
a  thick  bubbling  noise,  as  if  what  it  contained 
had  boiled  itself  almost  dry,  and  a  coffee-pot  on 
the  hearth  gave  forth  a  pleasant  smell.  The 
woman  from  time  to  time  turned  the  spit  of  a 
tin  kitchen  wherein  a  fowl  was  roasting,  and 
moved  about  the  coals  on  the  top  of  a  Dutch 
oven  at  one  side.  She  had  made  preparation  for 
a  comfortable  supper,  and  evidently  for  others 
than  herself. 

She  went  again  to  the  open  door  and  looked 
about,  the  dog  springing  up  and  following  to  the 
end  of  his  cord.  The  sun  was  nearer  the  horizon 
now,  and  the  red  glow  was  brighter.  She  looked 
towards  the  ruin ;  looked  along  the  road ;  came 
down  the  steps  and  looked  towards  the  swamp 
and  the  railway  path.  This  time  she  took  a  few 
steps  in  the  direction  of  the  house ;  looked  up  at 
its  open  windows,  at  the  front  door  standing  ajar, 
at  a  pair  of  gloves  and  a  branch  from  the  vine 
at  the  ruin,  that  lay  on  the  top  step  of  the  piazza, 
as  if  in  passing  one  had  put  them  there,  intend- 
ing to  return  in  a  moment.  While  she  looked 
the  distant  whistle  of  a  locomotive  was  heard 
echoing  back  and  forth  about  the  empty  land, 
and  the  rumble  of  an  approaching  train.  She 
turned  a  little  to  listen,  then  went  hurriedly  back 
to  the  kitchen. 

The  rumbling  sound  increased,  although  the 
speed  was  lessened  as  the  river  was  neared. 

5 


AN    INCIDENT 

Very  slowly  the  train  was  moving,  and  the  wom- 
an, peeping  from  the  window,  watched  a  gen- 
tleman get  off  and  begin  the  descent  of  the 
path. 

"  Mass  Johnnie  !"  she  said.  "  Lawd  !  Lawd  !" 
and  again  seated  herself  by  the  fire  until  the 
rapid,  firm  footstep  having  passed,  she  went  to 
the  door,  and  standing  well  in  the  shadow, 
watched. 

Up  the  steps  the  gentleman  ran,  pausing  to 
pick  up  ,the  gloves  and  the  bit  of  vine.  The 
negro  groaned.  Then  in  at  the  open  door, 
"  Nellie  !"  he  called,  "  Nellie !" 

The  woman  heard  the  call,  and  going  back 
quickly  to  her  seat  by  the  fire,  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head. 

"  Abram  !"  was  the  next  call ;  then,  "Aggie  !" 

She  sat  quite  still,  and  the  master,  running  up 
the  kitchen  steps  and  coming  in  at  the  door, 
found  her  so. 

"Aggie?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"  Why  didn't  you  answer  me  ?" 

The  veiled  figure  rocked  a  little  from  side  to 
side. 

"What  the  mischief  is  the  matter?"  walking 
up  to  the  woman  and  pulling  the  apron  from 
over  her  face.  "Where  is  your  Miss  Nellie?" 

"  I  dun'no',  suh  ;  but  yo'  supper  is  ready,  Mass 
Johnnie." 

"  Has  your  mistress  driven  anywhere  ?" 

"  De  horse  in  de  stable,  suh."  The  woman  now 
6 


AN    INCIDENT 

rose  as  if  to  meet  a  climax,  but  her  eyes  were 
still  on  the  fire. 

"  Did  she  go  out  walking  ?" 

"  Dis  mawnin',  suh." 

"This  morning  !"  he  repeated,  slowly,  wonder- 
ingly,  "  and  has  not  come  back  yet  ?" 

The  woman  began  to  tremble,  and  her  eyes, 
shining  and  terrified,  glanced  furtively  at  her 
master. 

"  Where  is  Abram?" 

"I  dun'no',  suh  !"     It  was  a  gasping  whisper. 

The  master  gripped  her  shoulder,  and  with  a 
maddened  roar  he  cried  her  name — "  Aggie  !" 

The  woman  sank  down.  Perhaps  his  grasp 
forced  her  down.  "  'Fo'  Gawd  !"  she  cried — "  'fo' 
Gawd,  Mass  Johnnie,  I  dun'no'!"  holding  up  be- 
seeching hands  between  herself  and  the  awful 
glare  of  his  eyes.  "  I'll  tell  you,  suh,  Mass  John- 
nie, I'll  tell  you  !"  crouching  away  from  him. 
u  Miss  Nellie  gimme  out  dinner  en  supper,  den 
she  put  on  she  hat  en  gone  to  de  ole  chimbly  en 
git  some  de  brier  what  grow  dey.  Den  she  come 
back  en  tell  Abram  fuh  git  a  bresh  broom  en 
sweep  de  ya'd.  Lemme  go,  Mass  Johnnie,  please, 
suh,  en  I  tell  you  better,  suh.  En  Abram  teck 
de  hatchet  en  gone  to'des  de  railroad  fuh  cut  de 
bresh.  To'  Gawd,  Mass  Johnnie,  it's  de  trute, 
suh  !  Den  I  tell  Miss  Nellie  say  de  chicken  is 
all  git  out  de  coop,  en  she  say  I  muss  ketch  one 
fuh  unner  supper,  suh  ;  en  I  teck  de  dawg  en 
gone  in  de  fiel'  fuh  look  fuh  de  chicken.  En  I 
see  Miss  Nellie  put  'e  glub  en  de  brier  on  de  step, 

7 


AN    INCIDENT 

en  walk  to'des  de  swamp,  like  'e  was  goin'  on  de 
dam — 'kase  de  water  ent  rise  ober  de  dam  den — 
en  den  I  gone  in  de  broom-grass  en  I  run  de 
chicken,  en  I  ent  ketch  one  tay  I  git  clean  ober 
to  de  woods.  En  when  I  come  back  de  glub  is 
layin'  on  de  step,  en  de  brier,  des  like  Miss  Nellie 
left  um — "  She  stopped  and  her  master  straight- 
ened himself. 

u  Well,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  strained  and 
weak. 

The  servant  once  more  flung  her  apron  over 
her  head,  and  broke  into  violent  crying.  "  Dat's 
all,  Mass  Johnnie !  dat's  all !  I  dun'no'  wey 
Abram  is  gone  ;  I  dun'no'  what  Abram  is  do  ! 
Nobody  ent  been  on  de  place  dis  day — dis  day 
but  me — but  me!  Oh,Lawd!  oh,Lawden  Gawd!" 

The  master  stood  as  if  dazed.  His  face  was 
drawn  and  gray,  and  his  breath  came  in  awful 
gasps.  A  moment  he  stood  so,  then  he  strode 
out  of  the  house.  With  a  howl  the  dog  sprang 
forward,  snapping  the  cord,  and  rushed  after  his 
master. 

The  woman's  cries  ceased,  and  without  moving 
from  her  crouching  position  she  listened  with 
straining  ears  to  the  sounds  that  reached  her  from 
the  stable.  In  a  moment  the  clatter  of  horses' 
hoofs  going  at  a  furious  pace  swept  by,  then  a 
dead  silence  fell.  The  intense  quiet  seemed  to 
rouse  her,  and  going  to  the  door,  she  looked 
out.  The  glow  had  faded,  and  the  gray  mist  was 
gathering  in  distinct  strata  above  the  marsh  and 
the  river.  She  went  out  and  looked  about  her 

8 


AN    INCIDENT 

as  she  had  done  so  many  times  during  that  long 
day.  She  gazed  at  the  water  that  was  still  ris- 
ing ;  she  peered  cautiously  behind  the  stable  and 
under  the  houses;  she  approached  the  wood- 
pile as  if  under  protest,  gathered  some  logs  into 
her  arms  and  an  axe  that  was  lying  there ;  then 
turning  towards  the  kitchen,  she  hastened  her 
steps,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  now  and 
again,  as  if  fearing  pursuit.  Once  in  the  kitchen 
she  threw  down  the  wood  and  barred  the  door ; 
she  shut  the  boarded  window-shutter,  fastening 
it  with  an  iron  hook ;  then  leaning  the  axe 
against  the  chimney,  she  sat  down  by  the  fire, 
muttering,  u  If  dat  nigger  come  sneakin'  back  yer 
now,  I'll  split  'e  haid  open,  sho" 

Recovering  a  little  from  her  panic,  she  was 
once  more  a  cook,  and  swung  the  crane  from 
over  the  fire,  brushed  the  coals  from  the  top  of 
the  Dutch -oven,  and  pushed  the  tin  kitchen 
farther  from  the  blaze.  "  Mass  Johnnie  '11  want 
sump'h'n  to  eat  some  time  dis  night,"  she  said  ; 
then,  after  a  pause,  "en  I  gwine  eat  now!'  She 
got  a  plate  and  cup,  and  helped  herself  to  hominy 
out  of  the  pot,  and  to  a  roll  out  of  the  oven;  but 
though  she  looked  at  the  fowl  she  did  not  touch 
it,  helping  herself  instead  to  a  goodly  cup  of 
coffee.  So  she  ate  and  drank  with  the  axe  close 
beside  her,  now  and  then  pausing  to  groan  and 
mutter — "  Po'  Mass  Johnnie  ! — po'  Mass  Johnnie ! 
— Lawd  !  Lawd  !  —  if  Miss  Nellie  had  er  sen* 
Abram  atter  dat  chicken — like  I  tell  um — Lawd !" 
shaking  her  head  the  while. 

9 


AN    INCIDENT 

Through  the  gathering  dusk  John  Morris  gal- 
loped at  the  top  speed  of  his  horse.  Reaching 
the  little  railway  station,  he  sprang  off,  throwing 
the  reins  over  a  post,  and  strode  in. 

"Write  this  telegram  for  me,  Green,"  he  said  ; 
"my  hand  trembles." 

"  To  SAM  PARTIN,  Sheriff,  Pmeville: 

"  My  wife  missing  since  morning.  Negro,  Abram 
Washington,  disappeared.  Bring  men  and  dogs.  Get 
off  night  train  this  side  of  bridge.  Will  be  fire  on  the 
path  to  mark  the  place.  JOHN  MORRIS." 

"  Great  God  !"  the  operator  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I'll  come  too,  Mr.  Morris." 

"  Thank  you,"  John  Morris  answered.  "  I  am 
going  to  get  the  Wilson  boys,  and  Rountree  and 
Mitchell,"  and  for  the  first  time  the  men's  eyes 
met.  Determined,  deadly,  sombre,  was  the  look 
exchanged  ;  then  Morris  went  away. 

None  of  the  men  whom  Morris  summoned  said 
much,  nor  did  they  take  long  to  arm  themselves, 
saddle,  and  mount,  and  by  nine  o'clock  Aggie 
heard  them  come  galloping  across  the  field;  then 
her  master's  voice  calling  her.  There  was  little 
time  in  which  to  make  the  signal-fire  on  the  rail- 
road embankment,  and  to  cut  lightwood  into 
torches,  even  though  there  were  many  hands  to 
do  the  work.  John  Morris's  dog  followed  him  a 
part  of  the  way  to  the  wood-pile,  then  turned 
aside  to  where  the  water  had  crept  up  from  the 
swamp  into  the  yard.  Aggie  saw  the  dog,  and 
spoke  to  Mr.  Morris. 


AN    INCIDENT 

"  Dat's  de  way  dat  dawg  do  dis  mawnin',  Mass 
Johnnie,  an'  when  I  gone  to  ketch  de  chicken, 
Miss  Nellie  was  walkin'  to'des  dat  berry  place." 

An  irresistible  shudder  went  over  John  Morris, 
and  one  of  the  gentlemen  standing  near  asked  if 
he  had  a  boat. 

"  The  bateau  was  tied  to  that  stake  this  morn- 
ing," Mr.  Morris  answered,  pointing  to  a  stake 
some  distance  out  in  the  water ;  "  but  I  have 
another  boat  in  the  top  of  the  stable."  Every 
man  turned  to  go  for  it,  showing  the  direction 
of  their  fears,  and  launched  it  where  the  log 
bridge  crossed  the  head  of  the  swamp,  and  where 
now  the  water  was  quite  deep. 

The  whistle  was  heard  at  the  station,  and  the 
rumble  of  the  on-coming  train.  The  fire  flared 
high,  lighting  up  the  group  of  men  standing 
about  it,  booted  and  belted  with  ammunition- 
belts,  quiet,  and  white,  and  determined. 

Many  curious  heads  looked  out  as  the  sheriff 
and  his  men — six  men  besides  Green  from  the 
station — got  off;  then  the  train  rumbled  away 
in  the  darkness  towards  the  surging,  turbulent 
river,  and  the  crowd  moved  towards  the  house. 

Mr.  Morris  told  of  his  absence  in  town  on 
business.  That  Abram  had  been  hired  first  as  a 
field-hand  ;  and  that  later,  after  his  marriage,  he 
had  taken  Abram  from  the  field  to  look  after  his 
horse  and  to  do  the  heavier  work  about  the  house 
and  yard. 

"  And  the  woman  Aggie  is  trustworthy?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it ;  she  used  to  belong  to  us." 
ii 


AN    INCIDENT 

"  Abram  is  a  strange  negro  ?"     • 

"Yes." 

Then  Aggie  was  called  in  to  tell  her  story. 
Abram  had  taken  the  hatchet  and  had  gone  tow- 
ards the  railroad  for  brush  to  make  a  broom. 
She  had  taken  the  dog  and  gone  into  the 
broom -grass  to  catch  a  fowl,  and  the  last  she 
had  seen  of  her  mistress  she  was  walking  tow- 
ards the  dam,  which  was  then  above  the  wa- 
ter. 

"  How  long  were  you  gone  after  the  chicken  ?" 

"  I  dun'no',  suh  ;  but  I  run  um  clean  to  the 
woods  'fo'  I  ketch  um,  en  I  walked  back  slow 
'kase  I  tired." 

"  Were  you  gone  an  hour  ?" 

"I  spec  so,  suh,  'kase  when  I  done  ketch  de 
chicken  I  stop  fuh  pick  up  some  lightwood  I  see 
wey  Abram  been  cuttin'  wood  yistiddy." 

"And  your  mistress  was  not  here  when  you 
came  back — nor  Abram  ?" 

"No,  suh,  nobody;  en  'e  wuz  so  lonesome  I 
come  en  look  in  dis  house  fuh  Miss  Nellie,  but  'e 
ent  deyyer;  en  I  look  in  de  bush  fuh  Abram,  but 
I  ent  see  um  nudder.  En  de  dawg  run  to  de 
water  en  howl  en  ba'k  en  ba'k  tay  I  tie  um  up  in 
de  kitchen." 

"  And  was  the  boat  tied  to  the  stake  this 
morning  ?" 

"  Yes,  suh  ;  en  when  I  been  home  long  time  en 
git  scare,  den  I  look  en  see  de  boat  gone." 

"  You  don't  think  that  your  mistress  got  in  the 
boat  and  drifted  away  by  accident?" 


AN    INCIDENT 

"No,  suh,  nebber,  suh;  Miss  Nellie  'fraid  de 
water  lessen  Mass  Johnnie  is  wid  um." 

"  Is  Abram  a  good  boy  ?" 

"I  dun'no',  suh;  I  dun'no'  nuttin'  'tall  'bout 
Abram,  suh;  Abram  is  strange  nigger  to  we." 

"  Did  he  take  his  things  out  of  his  room  ?" 

"  Abram  t'ings?  Ki !  Abram  ent  hab  nuttin' 
ceppen  what  Miss  Nellie  en  Mass  Johnnie  gi'um. 
No,  suh,  dat  nigger  ent  hab  nuttin'  but  de  close 
on  'e  back  when  'e  come  to  we." 

The  sheriff  paused  a  moment.  "  I  think,  Mr. 
Morris,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  that  we'd  better  sepa- 
rate. You,  with  Mr.  Mitchell  and  Mr.  Rountree, 
had  better  take  your  boat  and  hunt  in  the  swamp 
and  marsh,  and  along  the  river-bank.  Let  Mr. 
Wilson,  his  brothers,  and  Green  take  your  dog 
and  search  in  the  pine-barren.  I'll  take  my  men 
and  my  dogs  and  cross  the  railroad.  The  signal 
of  any  discovery  will  be  three  shots  fired  in  quick 
succession.  The  gathering-place  '11  be  this  house, 
where  a  member  of  the  discovering  party  '11  meet 
the  other  parties  and  bring  'em  to  the  discovery. 
And  I  beg  that  you'll  refrain  from  violence,  at 
least  until  we  can  reach  each  other.  We've  no 
proof  of  anything — " 

"Damn  proof!" 

"An'  our  only  clew,"  the  sheriff  went  on,  "the 
missing  boat,  points  to  Mrs.  Morris's  safety."  A 
little  consultation  ensued ;  then  agreeing  to  the 
sheriff's  distribution  of  forces,  they  left  the 
house. 

The  sheriff's  dogs — the  lean,  small  hounds  used 
13 


AN    INCIDENT 

on  such  occasions — were  tied  and  he  held  the 
ropes.  There  was  an  anxious  look  on  his  face, 
and  he  kept  his  dogs  near  the  house  until  the 
party  for  the  barren  had  mounted  and  ridden 
away,  and  the  party  in  the  boat  had  pushed  off 
into  the  blackness  of  the  swamp,  a  torch  fastened 
at  the  prow  casting  weird,  uncertain  shadows. 
Then  ordering  his  six  men  to  mount  and  to  lead 
his  horse,  he  went  to  the  room  of  the  negro 
Abram  and  got  an  old  shirt.  The  two  lean  little 
dogs  were  restless,  but  they  made  no  sound  as  he 
led  them  across  the  railway.  Once  on  the  other 
side,  he  let  them  smell  the  shirt,  and  loosed  them, 
and  was  about  to  mount,  when,  in  the  flash  of  a 
torch,  he  saw  something  in  the  grass. 

"  A  hatchet !"  he  said  to  his  companions,  pick- 
ing it  up  ;  "  and  clean,  thank  God  !" 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  then  one  said, 
slowly,  "He  coulder  drowned  her?" 

The  sheriff  did  not  answer,  but  followed  the 
dogs  that  had  trotted  away  with  their  noses  to 
the  ground. 

"I'm  sure  the  nigger  came  this  way,"  the 
sheriff  said,  after  a  while.  "  Those  others  may 
find  the  poor  young  lady,  but  I  feel  sure  of  the 
nigger." 

One  of  the  men  stopped  short.  "  That  nigger's 
got  to  die,"  he  said. 

"  Of  course,"  the  sheriff  answered,  "  but  not  by 
Judge  Lynch's  court.  This  circuit's  got  a  judge 
that'll  hang  him  lawfully." 

"  I  b'lieve  Judge  More  will,"  the  recalcitrant 
14 


AN    INCIDENT 

admitted,  and  rode  on.  "But,"  he  added,  "if  I 
know  Mr.  John  Morris,  that  nigger's  safe  to  die 
one  way  or  another." 

They  rode  more  rapidly  now,  as  J:he  dogs  had 
quickened  their  pace.  The  moon  had  risen,  and 
the  riding,  for  men  who  hunted  recklessly,  was 
not  bad.  Through  woods  and  across  fields,  over 
fences  and  streams,  down  by-paths  and  old  roads, 
they  followed  the  little  dogs. 

"We're  makin'  straight  for  the  next  county," 
the  sheriff  said. 

"  We're  makin'  straight  for  the  old  Powis  settle- 
ment," was  answered.  "Nothin'  but  niggers 
have  lived  there  since  the  war,  an'  that  nigger's 
there,  I'll  bet." 

"That's  so,"  the  sheriff  said.  "About  how 
many  niggers  live  there?" 

"  There  ain't  more  than  half  a  dozen  cabins  left 
now.  We  can  easy  manage  that  many." 

It  was  a  long  rough  ride,  and  in  spite  of  their 
rapid  pace  it  was  some  time  after  midnight  be- 
fore they  saw  the  clearing  where  clustered  the 
few  cabins  left  of  the  plantation  quarters  of  a 
well-known  place,  which  in  its  day  had  yielded 
wealth  to  its  owners.  The  moon  was  very  bright, 
and,  save  for  the  sound  of  the  horses'  feet,  the 
silence  was  intense. 

"  Look  sharp,"  the  sheriff  said  ;  "  that  nigger 
ain't  sleepin'  much  if  he's  here,  and  he  might  try 
to  slip  off." 

The  dogs  were  going  faster  now,  and  yelping  a 
little. 

15 


AN    INCIDENT 

"  Keep  up,  boys  !"  and  the  sheriff  spurred  his 
horse. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  thundered  into  the  little 
settlement,  where  the  dogs  were  already  barking 
and  leaping  against  a  close-shut  door.  Fright- 
ened black  faces  began  to  peer  out.  Low  ex- 
clamations and  guttural  ejaculations  were  heard 
as  the  armed  men  scattered,  one  to  each  cabin, 
while  the  sheriff  hammered  at  the  door  where 
the  dogs  were  jumping. 

"It's  the  sheriff!"  he  called,  "come  to  get 
Abram  Washington.  Bring  him  out  and  you 
kin  go  back  to  your  beds.  We're  all  armed,  and 
nobody  need  to  try  runnin'." 

The  door  opened  cautiously,  and  an  old  negro 
looked  out.  "  Abram's  my  son,  Mr.  Partin,"  he 
said,  "  an'  'fo'  Gawd  he  ent  yer." 

"  No  lyin',  old  man ;  the  dogs  brought  us 
straight  here.  Don't  make  me  burn  the  house 
down  ;  open  the  door." 

The  door  was  closing  when  the  sheriff,  spring- 
ing from  his  horse,  forced  it  steadily  back.  A  shot 
came  from  within,  but  it  ranged  wild,  and  in  an 
instant  the  sheriff's  pistol  covered  the  one  room, 
where  a  smouldering  fire  gave  light.  Two  of  the 
men  followed  him,  and  one,  making  for  the  fire, 
pushed  it  into  a  blaze,  which  revealed  a  group  of 
negroes  —  an  old  man,  a  young  woman,  some 
children,  and  a  young  man  crouching  behind 
with  a  gun  in  his  hand.  The  sheriff  walked 
straight  up  to  the  young  man,  whose  teeth  were 
chattering. 

16 


AN    INCIDENT 

"  I  arrest  you,"  he  said  ;  "  come  on." 

"  That's  the  feller,"  confirmed  one  of  the 
guard;  "  I've  seen  him  at  Mr.  Morris's  place." 

"  Tie  him,"  the  sheriff  ordered,  "  while  I  get  that 
gun.  Give  it  to  me,  old  man,  or  I'll  take  you  to 
jail,  too."  It  was  yielded  up — an  old-time  rifle — 
and  the  sheriff  smashed  it  against  the  side  of  the 
chimney,  throwing  the  remnants  into  the  fire. 
"Lead  on,"  he  said,  and  the  young  negro  was 
taken  outside.  Quickly  he  was  lifted  on  to  a  horse 
and  tied  there,  while  the  former  rider  mounted 
behind  one  of  his  companions,  and  they  rode  out 
of  the  settlement  into  the  woods. 

"  Git  into  the  shadows,"  one  said  ;  "  they  might 
be  fools  enough  to  shoot." 

Once  in  the  road,  the  sheriff  called  a  halt.  "  One 
of  you  must  ride  back  to  Mr.  Morris's  place  and 
collect  the  other  search-parties,  while  we  make 
for  Pineville  jail.  Now,  Abram,  come  on." 

"  I  ent  done  nuttin',  Mr.  Partin,  suh,"  the  negro 
urged.  "  I  ent  hot  Mis'  Morris." 

"Who  said  anything  'bout  Mrs.  Morris?"  was 
asked,  sharply. 

The  negro  groaned. 

"You're  hanging  yourself,  boy,"  the  sheriff 
said ;  "  but  since  you  know,  where  is  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris ?" 

"Idun'no',  suh." 

"Why  did  you  run  away?" 

"  'Kase  I  'f raid  Mr.  Morris." 

"  What  were  you  'f raid  of  ?" 

"  'Kase  Mis'  Morris  gone." 
B  17 


AN    INCIDENT 

They  were  riding  rapidly  now,  and  the  talk  was 
jolted  out. 

"Where?" 

"  I  dun'no',  suh,  but  I  ent  tech  um." 

"You're  a  damned  liar." 

"  No,  suh,  I  ent  tech  um ;  I  des  look  at  um." 

"  I'd  like  to  gouge  your  eyes  out !"  cried  one  of 
the  men,  and  struck  him. 

"  None  o'  that !"  ordered  the  sheriff.  "  And  you 
keep  your  mouth  shut,  Abram  ;  you'll  have  time 
to  talk  on  your  trial." 

"  Blast  a  trial !"  growled  the  crowd. 

"The  rope's  round  his  neck  now,"  suggested 
one,  "and  I  see  good  trees  at  every  step." 

"  Please,  suh,  gentlemen,"  pleaded  the  shaking 
negro,  "  I  ent  done  nuttin'." 

"  Shut  your  mouth  !"  ordered  the  sheriff  again, 
"and  ride  faster.  Day  '11  soon  break." 

"  You're  'f raid  Mr.  Morris  '11  ketch  us  'fore  we 
reach  the  jail,"  laughed  one  of  the  guard.  And 
the  sheriff  did  not  answer. 

The  eastern  sky  was  gray  when  the  party  rode 
into  Pineville,  a  small,  straggling  country  town, 
and  clattered  through  its  one  street  to  the  jail. 
To  the  negro,  at  least,  it  was  a  welcome  moment, 
for,  with  his  feet  tied  under  the  horse,  his  hands 
tied  behind  his  back,  and  a  rope  with  a  slip-knot 
round  his  neck,  he  had  not  found  the  ride  a  pleas- 
ant one.  A  misstep  of  his  horse  would  surely 
have  precipitated  his  hanging,  and  he  knew  well 
that  such  an  accident  would  have  given  much 
satisfaction  to  his  captors.  So  he  uttered  a  fer- 

18 


AN    INCIDENT 

vent  "Teng  Gawd !"  as  he  was  hustled  into  the 
jail  gate  and  heard  it  close  behind  him. 

Early  as  it  was,  most  of  the  town  was  up  and  ex- 
cited. Betting  had  been  high  as  to  whether  the 
sheriff  would  get  the  prisoner  safe  into  the  jail,  and 
even  the  winners  seemed  disappointed  that  he  had 
accomplished  this  feat,  although  they  praised  his 
skilful  management.  But  the  sheriff  knew  that 
if  the  lady's  body  was  found,  that  if  Mr.  Morris 
could  find  any  proof  against  the  negro,  that  if 
Mr.  Morris  even  expressed  a  wish  that  the  negro 
should  hang,  the  whole  town  would  side  with  him 
instantly;  and  the  sheriff  knew,  further,  that  in 
such  an  emergency  he  would  be  the  negro's  only 
defender,  and  that  the  jail  could  easily  be  carried 
by  the  mob. 

All  these  thoughts  had  been  with  him  during 
the  long  night,  and  though  he  himself  was  quite 
willing  to  hang  the  negro,  being  fully  persuaded 
of  his  guilt,  he  was  determined  to  do  his  official 
duty,  and  to  save  the  prisoner's  life  until  sentence 
was  lawfully  passed  on  him.  But  how?  If  he 
could  quiet  the  town  before  the  day  brightened, 
he  had  a  plan,  but  to  accomplish  this  seemed 
wellnigh  impossible. 

He  handcuffed  the  prisoner  and  locked  him 
into  a  cell,  then  advised  his  escort  to  go  and  get 
food,  as  before  the  day  was  done — indeed,  just  as 
soon  as  Mr.  Morris  should  reach  the  town — he 
would  probably  need  them  to  help  him  defend 
the  jail. 

They  nodded  among  themselves,  and  winked, 
19 


AN    INCIDENT 

and  laughed  a  little,  and  one  said,  "  Right  good 
play-actin'  ";  and  watching,  the  sheriff  knew  that 
he  could  depend  on  only  one  man,  his  own  brother, 
to  help  him.  But  he  sent  him  off  along  with  the 
others,  and  was  glad  to  see  that  the  crowd  of 
towns-people  went  with  his  guard,  listening  eager- 
ly to  the  details  of  the  suspected  tragedy  and  the 
subsequent  hunt.  This  was  his  only  chance,  and 
he  went  at  once  to  the  negro's  cell. 

"  Now,  Abram,"  he  said,  "  if  you  don't  want  to 
be  a  dead  man  in  an  hour's  time,  you'd  better  do 
exactly  what  I  tell  you." 

"  Yes,  suh,  please  Gawd." 

"  Put  on  this  old  hat/'  handing  him  one,  "  and 
pull  it  down  over  your  eyes,  and  follow  me. 
When  we  get  outside,  you  walk  along  with  me 
like  any  ordinary  nigger  going  to  his  work  ;  and 
remember,  if  you  stir  hand  or  foot  more  than  to 
walk,  you  are  a  dead  man.  Come  on." 

There  was  a  back  way  out  of  the  jail,  and  to 
this  the  sheriff  went.  Once  outside,  he  walked 
briskly,  the  negro  keeping  step  with  him  diligent- 
ly. They  did  not  meet  any  one,  and  before  very 
long  they  reached  the  sheriff's  house,  which  stood 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Being  a  widower, 
he  knocked  peremptorily  on  the  door,  and  when 
it  was  opened  by  his  son,  he  marched  his  prisoner 
in  without  explanation. 

"  Shut  the  door,  Willie,"  he  said,  "  and  load  the 
Winchester." 

"  Please,  suh — "  interjected  the  negro. 

For  answer,  the  sheriff  took  a  key  from  the 


AN    INCIDENT 

shelf,  and  led  him  out  of  the  back  door  to  where, 
down  a  few  steps,  there  was  another  door  leading 
into  an  underground  cellar. 

"  Now,  Abram,"  he  said,  "  you're  to  keep  quiet 
in  here  till  I  can  take  you  to  the  city  jail.  There 
is  no  use  your  trying  to  escape,  because  my  two 
boys  '11  be  about  here  all  day  with  their  repeating 
rifles,  and  they  can  shoot." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"And  whoever  unlocks  this  door  and  tells  you 
to  come  out,  you  do  it,  and  do  it  quick." 

"Yes,  suh." 

Locking  the  door,  the  sheriff  turned  to  his  son. 
u  You  and  Charlie  must  watch  that  door  all  day, 
Willie,"  he  said  ;  "  but  you  mustn't  seem  to  watch 
it ;  and  keep  your  guns  handy,  and  if  that  nigger 
tries  to  get  away,  kill  him  ;  don't  hesitate.  I 
must  go  back  to  the  jail  and  make  out  like  he's 
there.  And  tell  Charlie  to  feed  the  horse  and 
hitch  him  to  the  buggy,  and  let  him  stand  ready 
in  the  stable,  for  when  I'll  want  him  I'll  want 
him  quick.  Above  all  things,  don't  let  anybody 
know  that  the  nigger's  here.  But  keep  the  cellar 
key  in  your  pocket,  and  shoot  if  he  tries  to  run. 
If  your  uncle  Jim  comes,  do  whatever  he  tells 
you,  but  nobody  else,  lessen  they  bring  a  note 
from  me.  Now  remember.  I'm  trusting  you, 
boy;  and  don't  you  make  any  mistake  about 
killing  the  nigger  if  he  tries  to  escape." 

"  All  right,"  the  boy  answered,  cheerfully,  and 
the  father  went  away.  He  almost  ran  to  the 
jail,  and,  entering  once  more  by  the  back  door, 


AN    INCIDENT 

found  things  undisturbed.  Presently  his  brother 
called  to  him,  and  the  gates  and  doors  being 
opened,  came  in,  bringing  a  waiter  of  hot  food 
and  coffee. 

"  I  told  Jinnie  you'd  not  like  to  leave  the  jail/' 
he  said,  "  an*  she  fixed  this  up." 

"  Jinnie's  mighty  good,"  the  sheriff  answered, 
"and  sometimes  a  woman's  mighty  handy  to 
have  about — sometimes ;  but  I'd  not  leave  one 
out  in  the  country  like  Mr.  Morris  did ;  no,  sir, 
not  in  these  days.  We  could  do  it  before  the 
war  and  during  the  war,  but  not  now.  The  old 
niggers  were  taught  some  decency  ;  but  these 
young  ones !  God  help  us,  for  I  don't  see  any 
safety  for  this  country  'cept  Judge  Lynch.  And 
I'll  tell  you  this  is  my  first  an'  last  term  as 
sheriff.  The  work's  too  dirty." 

u  Buck  Thomas  was  a  boss  sheriff,"  his  broth- 
er answered ;  "  he  found  the  niggers  all  right, 
but  the  niggers  never  found  the  jail,  and  the 
niggers  were  'fraid  to  death  of  him." 

"  Maybe  Buck  was  right,"  the  sheriff  said,  "  and 
'twas  heap  the  easiest  way ;  but  here  comes  the 
town." 

The  two  men  went  to  the  window  and  saw  a 
crowd  of  people  advancing  down  the  road,  led  by 
Mr.  Morris  and  his  friends  on  horseback. 

"  I  b'lieve  you're  the  only  man  in  this  town 
that  '11  stand  by  me,  Jim,"  the  sheriff  said.  "  I 
swore  in  six  last  night,  and  I  see  'em  all  in  that 
crowd.  Poor  Mr.  Morris!  in  his  place  I'd  do 
just  what  he's  doin'.  Blest  if  yonder  ain't  Doty 

22 


AN    INCIDENT 

Buxton  comin'  to  help  me  !  I'll  let  him  in ;  but 
see  here,  Jim,  I'm  going  to  send  Doty  to  tele- 
graph to  the  city  for  Judge  More,  and  I  want 
you  to  slip  out  the  back  way  right  now,  and  run 
to  my  house,  and  tell  Willie  to  give  you  the 
buggy  and  the  nigger,  and  you  drive  that  nigger 
into  the  city.  Of  course  you'll  kill  him  if  he 
tries  to  escape." 

"The  nigger  ain't  here  !" 

"  I'm  no  fool,  Jim.  And  I'll  hold  this  jail,  me 
and  Doty,  as  long  as  possible,  and  you  drive  like 
hell!  You  see?" 

"  I  didn't  know  you  really  wanted  to  save  the 
nigger,"  his  brother  remonstrated;  "nobody 
b'lieves  that." 

"  I  don't,  as  a  nigger.  But  you  go  on  now, 
and  I'll  send  Doty  with  the  telegram,  and  make 
time  by  talkin'  to  Mr.  Morris.  I  don't  think 
they've  found  anything;  if  they  had,  they'd 
have  come  a  -  galloping,  and  the  devil  himself 
couldn't  have  stopped  'em.  Gosh,  but  its  aw- 
ful !  Who  knows  what  that  nigger's  done ! 
When  I  look  at  Mr.  Morris,  I  wish  you  fellers 
had  overpowered  me  last  night,  and  had  fixed 
things." 

He  let  his  brother  out  at  the  back,  then  went 
round  to  the  front  gate,  where  he  met  the  man 
whom  he  had  called  Doty  Buxton. 

"Go  telegraph  Judge  More  the  facts  of  the 
case,"  he  said,  "an'  ask  him  to  come.  I  don't 
believe  I'll  need  any  men  if  he'll  come ;  and  be- 
sides, he  and  Mr.  Morris  are  friends." 

23 


AN    INCIDENT 

As  the  man  turned  away,  one  of  the  horse- 
men rode  up  to  the  sheriff. 

"  We  demand  that  negro,"  he  said. 

"  I  supposed  that  was  what  you'd  come  for,  Mr. 
Mitchell,"  the  sheriff  answered  ;  "  but  you  know, 
sir,  that  as  much  as  I'd  like  to  oblige  you,  I'm 
bound  to  protect  the  man.  He  swears  that  he's 
never  touched  Mrs.  Morris." 

"  Great  God,  sheriff !  how  can  you  mention  the 
thing  quietly  ?  You  know — " 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  and  I  know  that  I'll  never  do 
the  dirty  work  of  a  sheriff  a  day  after  my  term's 
up.  But  we  haven't  any  proof  against  this  nigger 
except  that  he  ran  away — " 

"  Isn't  that  enough  when  the  lady  can't  be 
found,  nor  a  trace  of  her  ?" 

"  I  found  the  hatchet." 

"And—!" 

"  It  was  clean,  thank  God  !" 

Mr.  Mitchell  jerked  the  reins  so  violently  that 
his  horse,  tired  as  he  was,  reared  and  plunged. 

"  Mr.  Morris  declines  to  speak  with  you,"  he 
went  on,  when  the  horse  had  quieted  down,  "  but 
he's  determined  that  the  negro  shall  not  escape, 
and  the  whole  county  '11  back  him." 

"  I  know  that,"  the  sheriff  answered,  patiently, 
"  and  in  his  place  I'd  do  the  same  thing  ;  but  in 
my  place  I  must  do  my  official  duty.  I'll  not  let 
the  nigger  escape,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,  and 
I've  telegraphed  for  Judge  More  to  come  out 
here.  I've  telegraphed  the  whole  case.  Surely 
Mr.  Morris  '11  trust  Judge  More?" 
24 


AN    INCIDENT 

Mitchell  dragged  at  his  mustache.  "Poor 
Morris  is  nearly  dead,"  he  said. 

"  Of  course  ;  won't  he  go  and  eat  and  rest  till 
Judge  More  comes  ?  Every  house  in  the  town  '11 
be  open  to  him." 

"  No ;  he'll  not  wait  nor  rest ;  and  we're  de- 
termined to  hang  that  negro." 

"  It  '11  be  mighty  hard  to  shed  our  blood — 
friends  and  neighbors,"  remonstrated  the  sheriff 
— "  and  all  over  a  worthless  nigger." 

"  That's  your  lookout,"  Mr.  Mitchell  answered. 
"  A  trial  and  a  big  funeral  is  glory  for  a  negro, 
and  the  penitentiary  means  nothing  to  them  but 
free  board  and  clothes.  I  tell  you,  sheriff,  lynch- 
ing is  the  only  thing  that  affects  them." 

"You  won't  wait  even  until  I  get  an  answer 
from  Judge  More  ?" 

"Well,  to  please  you,  I'll  ask."  And  Mitchell 
rode  back  to  his  companions. 

The  conference  between  the  leaders  was  longer 
than  the  sheriff  had  hoped,  and  before  he  was 
again  approached  Doty  Buxton  had  returned, 
saying  that  Judge  More's  answer  would  be  sent 
to  the  jail  just  as  soon  as  it  came. 

"  You'll  stand  by  me,  Doty  ?"  the  sheriff  asked. 

"'Cause  I  like  you,  Mr.  Partin,"  Doty  answered, 
slowly  ;  "not  'cause  I  want  to  save  the  nigger. 
I  b'lieve  in  my  soul  he's  done  drownded  the  po* 
lady's  body." 

"All  right ;  you  go  inside  and  be  ready  to  chain 
the  gate  if  I  am  run  in."  Then  he  waited  for  the 
return  of  the  envoy. 

25 


AN    INCIDENT 

John  Morris  sat  on  his  horse  quite  apart  even 
from  his  own  friends,  and  after  a  few  words  with 
him,  Mitchell  had  gone  to  the  group  of  horse- 
men about  whom  the  townsmen  were  gathered. 
The  sheriff  did  not  know  what  this  portended, 
but  he  waited  patiently,  leaning  against  the  wall 
of  the  jail  and  whittling  a  stick.  He  knew  quite 
well  that  all  these  men  were  friendly  to  him  ; 
that  they  understood  his  position  perfectly,  and 
that  they  expected  him  to  pretend  to  do  his  duty 
to  a  reasonable  extent,  and  so  far  their  good- 
nature would  last ;  but  he  knew  equally  well  that 
in  their  eyes  the  negro  had  put  himself  beyond 
the  pale  of  the  law ;  that  they  were  determined 
to  hang  him,  and  would  do  it  at  any  cost;  and 
that  the  only  mercy  which  the  culprit  could  ex- 
pect from  this  upper  class  to  which  Mr.  Morris 
belonged  was  that  his  death  would  be  quick  and 
quiet.  He  knew  also  that  if  they  found  out  that 
he  was  in  earnest  in  defending  the  prisoner  he 
himself  would  be  in  danger,  not  only  from  Mr. 
Morris  and  his  friends,  but  from  the  townsmen 
as  well.  Of  course  all  this  could  be  avoided  by 
showing  them  that  the  jail  was  empty ;  but  to 
do  this  would  be  at  this  stage  to  insure  the  fugi- 
tive's capture  and  death.  To  save  the  negro  he 
must  hold  the  jail  as  long  as  possible,  and  if  he 
had  to  shoot,  shoot  into  the  ground.  All  this 
was  quite  clear  to  him ;  what  was  not  clear  was 
what  these  men  would  do  when  they  found  that 
he  had  saved  the  negro  and  they  had  stormed 
an  empty  jail. 

26 


AN    INCIDENT 

He  was  an  old  soldier,  and  had  been  in  many 
battles;  he  had  fought  hardest  when  he  knew 
that  things  were  most  hopeless;  he  had  risked 
his  life  recklessly,  and  death  had  been  as  nothing 
to  him  when  he  had  thought  that  he  would  die 
for  his  country.  But  now — now  to  risk  his  life 
for  a  negro,  for  a  worthless  creature  whom  he 
thought  deserved  hanging — was  this  his  duty  ? 
Why  not  say,  "  I  have  sent  the  negro  to  the 
city"?  How  quickly  those  fierce  horsemen  would 
dash  away  down  the  road  !  Well,  why  not  ?  He 
drew  himself  up.  He  was  not  going  to  turn 
coward  at  this  late  day.  His  duty  lay  very  plain 
before  him,  and  he  would  not  flinch.  And  he 
fixed  his  eyes  once  more  on  the  little  stick  he  was 
cutting,  and  waited. 

Presently  he  saw  a  movement  in  the  crowd, 
and  the  thought  flashed  across  him  that  they 
might  capture  him  suddenly  while  he  stood  there 
alone  and  unarmed.  He  stepped  quickly  to  the 
gate,  where  Doty  Buxton  waited,  and  standing 
in  the  opening,  asked  the  crowd  to  stand  back 
and  to  send  Mr.  Mitchell  to  tell  him  what  the  de- 
cision was.  There  was  a  moment's  pause  ;  then 
Mitchell  rode  forward. 

"  Mr.  Morris  says  that  Judge  More  cannot  help 
matters.  The  negro  must  die,  and  at  once.  We 
don't  want  to  hurt  you,  and  we  don't  want  to  de- 
stroy public  property,  but  we  are  going  to  have 
that  wretch  if  we  have  to  burn  the  jail  down. 
Will  you  stop  all  this  by  delivering  the  prisoner 
to  us?" 

27 


AN    INCIDENT 

The  sheriff  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't  do  that, 
sir.  But  one  thing  I  do  ask,  that  you'll  give  me 
warning  before  you  set  fire  to  the  jail." 

"  If  that  '11  make  you  give  up,  we'll  set  fire 
now." 

"  I  didn't  say  it  'd  make  me  surrender,  but  only 
that  I'd  like  to  throw  a  few  things  out — like  Doty 
Buxton,  for  instance,"  smiling  a  little. 

"  All  right ;  when  we  stop  trying  to  break  in, 
we'll  be  making  ready  to  smoke  you  out.  The 
jail's  empty  but  for  this  negro,  I  hear." 

"  Yes,  the  jail's  empty  ;  but  don't  you  think 
you  oughter  give  me  a  little  time  to  weigh  mat- 
ters ?" 

"  Is  there  any  chance  of  your  surrendering?" 

"  To  be  perfectly  honest,"  the  sheriff  answered, 
"there  isn't."  Then,  seeing  the  crowd  approach- 
ing, he  slipped  inside  the  heavy  gate,  and  Doty 
Buxton  chained  it.  "  Now,  Doty,"  he  said,  "  we'll 
peep  through  these  auger-holes  and  watch  'em  ; 
and  when  you  see  'em  coming  near,  you  must 
shoot  through  these  lower  holes.  Shoot  into  the 
ground  just  in  front  of  'em.  It's  nasty  to  have 
the  dirt  jumpin'  up  right  where  you've  got  to 
walk.  I  know  how  it  feels.  I  always  wanted  to 
hold  up  both  feet  at  once.  I  reckon  they've  gone 
to  get  a  log  to  batter  down  the  gate.  They  can 
do  it,  but  I'll  make  'em  take  as  long  as  I  can.  We 
mustn't  hurt  anybody,  Doty,  but  we  must  protect 
the  State  property  as  far  as  we're  able.  Here 
they  come !  Keep  the  dirt  dancin',  Doty.  See 
that?  They  don't  like  it.  I  told  you  they'd  want 

28 


AN    INCIDENT 

to  take  up  both  feet  at  once.  When  bullets  are 
flying  round  your  head,  you  can't  help  yourself, 
but  it's  hard  to  put  your  feet  down  right  where 
the  nasty  little  things  are  peckin'  about.  Here 
they  come  again  !  Keep  it  up,  Doty.  See  that  ? 
They've  stopped  again.  They  ain't  real  mad  with 
me  yet,  the  boys  ain't ;  only  Mr.  Morris  and  his 
friends  are  mad.  The  boys  think  I'm  just  pre- 
tending to  do  my  duty  for  the  looks  of  it ;  but  I 
ain't.  Gosh  !  Now  they've  fixed  it !  With  Mr. 
Morris  at  the  front  end  of  that  log,  there's  no 
hope  of  scare.  He'd  walk  over  dynamite  to  get 
that  nigger.  Poor  feller  !  Here  they  come  at  a 
run  !  Don't  hurt  anybody,  Doty.  Bang  !  Wait ; 
I'll  call  a  halt  by  knocking  on  the  gate ;  it  '11 
gain  us  a  little  more  time." 

"What  do  you  want?"  came  in  answer  to  the 
sheriff's  taps. 

"  I'll  arrest  every  man  of  you  for  destroying 
State  property,"  the  sheriff  answered. 

"All  right;  come  do  it  quick,"  was  the  re- 
sponse. "  We're  waitin',  but  we  won't  wait  long." 

"  I  reckon  we'll  have  to  go  inside,  Doty,"  the 
sheriff  said  ;  then  to  the  attacking  party,  "  If 
you'll  wait  till  Judge  More  comes,  I  promise  you 
the  nigger  '11  hang." 

For  answer  there  was  another  blow  on  the 
gate. 

"Remember,  I've  warned  you!"  the  sheriff 
called. 

"  Hush  that  rot !"  was  the  answer,  followed  by 
a  third  blow. 

29 


AN    INCIDENT 

The  sheriff  and  Doty  retreated  to  the  jail,  and 
the  attack  went  on.  It  was  a  two-story  building 
of  wood,  but  very  strongly  built,  and  unless  they 
tried  fire  the  sheriff  hoped  to  keep  the  besiegers 
at  bay  for  a  little  while  yet.  He  stationed  Doty 
at  one  window,  and  himself  took  position  at  an- 
other, each  with  loaded  pistols,  which  were  only 
to  be  used  as  before — to  make  "the  dirt  jump." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Doty,"  the  sheriff  said, 
"  if  you  boys  had  had  any  sense  you'd  have  over- 
powered me  last  night,  and  we'd  not  have  had  all 
this  trouble." 

"  We  wanted  to,"  Doty  answered,  "  but  you're 
new  at  the  business,  an'  you  talked  so  big  we 
didn't  like  to  make  you  feel  little." 

"  Here  they  come  !"  the  sheriff  went  on,  as  the 
stout  gate  swayed  inward.  "  One  more  good  lick 
an'  it's  down.  That's  it.  NOW  keep  the  dirt 
dancin',  Doty,  but  don't  hurt  anybody." 

Mr.  Morris  was  in  the  lead,  and  apparently  did 
not  see  the  "  dancin'  dirt,"  for  he  approached  the 
jail  at  a  run. 

"It's  no  use,  Doty,"  the  sheriff  said;  "all  we 
can  do  is  to  wait  till  they  get  in,  for  I'm  not  going 
to  shoot  anybody.  It  may  be  wrong  to  lynch, 
but  in  a  case  like  this  it's  the  rightest  wrong  that 
ever  was."  So  the  sheriff  sat  there  thinking, 
while  Doty  watched  the  attack  from  the  window. 

According  to  his  calculations  of  time  and  dis- 
tance, the  sheriff  thought  that  the  prisoner  was 
now  so  far  on  his  way  as  to  be  almost  out  of 
danger  by  pursuit,  and  his  mind  was  busy  with 

30 


AN    INCIDENT 

the  other  question  as  to  what  would  happen  when 
the  jail  was  found  to  be  empty.  He  had  not 
heard  from  Judge  More,  but  the  answer  could 
not  have  reached  him  after  the  attack  began. 
He  felt  sure  that  the  judge  would  come,  and 
come  by  the  earliest  train,  which  was  now  nearly 
due. 

"  The  old  man  '11  come  if  he  can,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  and  he'll  help  me  if  he  comes  ;  and  I 
wish  the  train  would  hurry." 
.  He  felt  glad  when  he  remembered  that  he  had 
given  the  keys  of  the  cells  to  his  brother,  for  though 
he  would  try  to  save  further  destruction  of  prop- 
erty by  telling  the  mob  that  the  jail  was  empty,  he 
felt  quite  sure  that  they  would  not  believe  him, 
and  in  default  of  keys,  would  break  open  every 
door  in  the  building ;  which  obstinacy  would 
grant  him  more  time  in  which  to  hope  for  Judge 
More  and  arbitration.  That  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  slip  out  once  the  besiegers  had  broken 
in  never  occurred  to  him  ;  his  only  thought  was 
to  stay  where  he  was  until  the  end  came,  what- 
ever that  might  be.  They  were  taking  longer 
than  he  had  expected,  and  every  moment  was  a 
gain. 

Doty  Buxton  came  in  from  the  hall,  where 
he  had  gone  to  watch  operations.  "  The  do'  is 
givin',"  he  said  ;  "  what  '11  you  do  ?" 

"  Nothing"  the  sheriff  answered,  slowly. 

"  Won't  you  give  'em  the  keys  ?" 

"  I  haven't  got  'em." 

"Gosh  !"  and  Doty's  eyes  got  big  as  saucers. 
31 


AN    INCIDENT 

Very  soon  the  outer  door  was  down,  and  the 
crowd  came  trooping  in,  all  save  John  Morris, 
who  stopped  in  the  hallway.  He  seemed  to  be 
unable  even  to  look  at  the  sheriff,  and  the  sheriff 
felt  the  averted  face  more  than  he  would  have 
felt  a  blow. 

"  We  want  the  keys,"  Mitchell  said. 

The  sheriff,  who  had  risen,  stood  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  and  his  eyes,  filled  with  sympathy, 
fastened  on  Mr.  Morris,  standing  looking  blankly 
down  the  empty  hall. 

"  I  haven't  got  the  keys,  Mr.  Mitchell,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Oh,  come  off!"  cried  one  of  the  townsmen. 
"Rocky!"  cried  another.  "Yo'  granny's  hat!" 
came  from  a  third ;  while  Doty  Buxton  said, 
gravely,  "  Give  up,  Partin  ;  we've  humored  this 
duty  business  long  enough." 

"  Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  won't 
give  up  the  keys?"  Mitchell  demanded,  scornfully. 

"  No/'  the  sheriff  retorted,  a  little  hotly,  "you 
don't  understand  anything  of  the  kind.  I  said 
that  I  didn't  have  the  keys ;  and  further,"  he 
added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  I  say  that  this 
jail  is  empty." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  while  the 
men  looked  at  each  other  incredulously  ;  then  the 
jeering  began  again. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  break  open  the 

cells,"  Morris  said,  sharply,  but  without  turning 

his  head.    "We  trusted  the  sheriff  last  night,  and 

he  outwitted  us  ;  we  must  not  trust  him  again." 

32 


AN    INCIDENT 

The  sheriff's  eyes  flashed,  and  the  blood  sprang 
to  his  face.  The  crowd  stood  eagerly  silent ;  but 
after  a  second  the  sheriff  answered,  quietly : 

"  You  may  say  what  you  please  to  me,  Mr. 
Morris,  and  I'll  not  resent^  it  under  these  circum- 
stances, but  I'll  swear  the  jail's  empty." 

For  answer  Morris  drove  an  axe  furiously 
against  the  nearest  cell  door,  and  the  crowd  fol- 
lowed suit.  There  were  not  many  cells,  and  as 
he  looked  from  a  window  the  sheriff  counted  the 
doors  as  they  fell  in,  and  listened  for  the  whistle 
of  the  train  that  he  hoped  would  bring  Judge 
More.  The  doors  were  going  down  rapidly,  and 
as  each  yielded  the  sheriff  could  hear  cries  and 
demonstrations.  What  would  they  do  when  the 
last  one  fell? 

Presently  Doty  Buxton,  who  had  been  making 
observations,  came  in,  pale  and  excited.  "  You'd 
better  git  yo'  pistols/'  he  said,  "an'  I'll  git  mine, 
for  they're  gittin'  madder  an'  madder  every  time 
he  ain't  there." 

"  Well,"  the  sheriff  answered,  "  I  want  you  to 
witness  that  I  ain't  armed.  My  pistols  are  over 
there  on  the  table,  unloaded.  Thank  the  good 
Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly ;  "there's  the  train, 
an'  Judge  More  !  I  hope  he'll  come  right  along." 

"An'  there  goes  the  last  do' !"  said  Doty,  as, 
after  a  crash  and  a  momentary  silence,  oaths  and 
ejaculations  filled  the  air.  He  drew  near  the 
sheriff,  but  the  sheriff  moved  away. 

"  Stand  back,"  he  said  ;  "  you've  got  little  chil- 
dren." 

c  33 


AN    INCIDENT 

In  an  instant  the  crowd  rushed  in,  headed  by 
Morris,  whose  burning  eyes  seemed  to  be  starting 
from  his  drawn  white  face.  Like  a  flash  Doty 
sprang  forward  and  wrenched  an  axe  from  the 
infuriated  man,  crying  out,  "  Partin  ain't  armed !" 

For  answer  a  blow  from  Morris's  fist  dropped 
the  sheriff  like  a  dead  man.  A  sudden  silence 
fell,  and  Morris,  standing  over  his  fallen  foe, 
looked  about  him  as  if  dazed.  For  an  instant  he 
stood  so,  then  with  a  violent  movement  he  pushed 
back  the  crowding  men,  and  lifting  the  sheriff, 
dragged  him  towards  the  open  window. 

"  Give  him  air,"  he  ordered,  "  and  go  for  the 
doctor,  and  for  cold  water  !"  He  laid  Partin  flat 
and  dragged  open  his  collar.  "  He's  not  dead — 
see  there  ;  I  struck  him  on  the  temple ;  under 
the  ear  would  have  killed  him,  but  not  this,  not 
this  !  Give  me  that  water,  and  plenty  of  it,  and 
move  back.  He's  not  dead,  no  ;  and  I  didn't 
mean  to  kill  him  ;  but  he  has  worked  against  me 
all  night,  and  I  didn't  think  a  white  man  would 
do  it." 

"He's  comin'  round,  Mr.  Morris,"  said  Doty, 
who  knelt  on  the  other  side  of  the  sheriff  ;  "  an* 
he  didn't  bear  no  malice  against  you — don't  fret ; 
but  it's  a  good  thing  I  jerked  that  axe  outer  yo' 
hand !  See,  he's  ketchin'  his  breath ;  it's  all 
right,"  as  Partin  opened  his  eyes  slowly  and 
looked  about  him. 

A  sound  like  a  sigh  came  from  the  crowd  ;  then 
a  voice  said,  "  Here  comes  Judge  More." 

Morris  was  still  holding  his  wet  handkerchief 

34 


"MORRIS,  STANDING  OVER  HIS  FALLEN  FOE,  LOOKED  ABOUT 
HIM  AS  IF  DAZED  " 


AN    INCIDENT 

on  the  sheriff's  head  when  the  old  judge  came  in. 
"  My  dear  boy/'  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  John 
Morris's  shoulder.  But  Morris  shook  his  head. 

"Let's  talk  business,  Judge  More,"  he  said, 
"and  let's  get  Par  tin  into  a  chair,  where  he  can 
rest;  I've  just  knocked  him  over." 

Then  Morris  left  the  room,  and  Mitchell  with 
him,  going  to  the  far  side  of  the  jail-yard,  where 
they  walked  up  and  down  in  silence.  It  was  not 
long  before  Judge  More  and  the  sheriff  joined 
them. 

"  The  evidence  was  too  slight  for  lynching,"  the 
judge  said,  looking  straight  into  John  Morris's 
eyes. 

"Great  God!"  Morris  cried,  and  struck  his 
hands  together. 

"  What  more  do  you  want  ?"  Mitchell  demand- 
ed, angrily.  "  His  wife  has  disappeared,  and  the 
negro  ran  away." 

"  True,  and  I'll  see  to  the  case  myself  ;  but  I'm 
glad  that  you  did  not  hang  the  negro." 

A  boy  came  up  with  a  telegram. 

"  From  Jim,  I  reckon,"  the  sheriff  said,  taking 
it.  "  No  ;  it's  for  you,  Mr.  Morris." 

It  was  torn  open  hastily ;  then  Morris  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  with  a  blank,  scared  face, 
while  the  paper  fluttered  from  his  hold. 

Mitchell  caught  it  and  read  aloud  slowly,  as  if 
he  did  not  believe  his  eyes  : 

" '  Am  safe.     Will  be  out  on  the  ten-o'clock  train. 

" '  ELEANOR.'  " 

35 


AN    INCIDENT 

Morris  stood  there,  shaking,  and  sobbing  hard, 
dry  sobs. 

"It  '11  kill  him!"  the  sheriff  said.  "Quick, 
some  whiskey !" 

A  flask  was  forced  between  the  blue,  trembling 
lips. 

"Drink,  old  fellow;"  and  Mitchell  put  his  arm 
about  Morris's  shoulders.  "  It's  all  right  now, 
thank  God  !" 

Morris  was  leaning  against  his  friend,  sobbing 
like  a  woman.  The  sheriff  drew  his  coat-sleeve 
across  his  eyes,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  What  made  the  nigger  run  away  ?"  he  said, 
slowly — adding,  as  if  to  himself,  "  God  help  us  !" 

A  vehicle  was  borrowed,  and  the  judge  and  the 
sheriff  drove  with  John  Morris  over  to  the  sta- 
tion to  meet  the  ten-o'clock  train.  The  sheriff 
and  the  judge  remained  in  the  little  carriage,  and 
the  station  agent  did  his  best  to  leave  the  whole 
platform  to  John  Morris.  As  the  moments  went 
by  the  look  of  anxious  agony  grew  deeper  on  the 
face  of  the  waiting  man.  The  sheriff's  ominous 
words,  falling  like  a  pall  over  the  first  flash  of  his 
happiness,  had  filled  his  mind  with  wordless  ter- 
rors. He  could  scarcely  breathe  or  move,  and 
could  not  speak  when  his  wife  stepped  off  and 
put  her  hands  in  his.  She  looked  up,  and  with- 
out a  query,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  an- 
swered the  anguished  questioning  of  his  eyes, 
whispering, 

"  He  did  not  touch  me." 

Morris  staggered  a  little,  then  drawing  her 
36 


AN    INCIDENT 

hand  through  his  arm,  he  led  her  to  the  carriage. 
She  shrank  back  when  she  saw  the  judge  and 
the  sheriff  on  the  front  seat ;  but  Morris  saying, 
"  They  must  hear  your  story,  dear,"  she  stepped 
in. 

"  We  are  very  thankful  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris," the  judge  said,  without  turning  his  head, 
when  the  sheriff  had  touched  up  the  horse  and 
they  moved  away ;  "  and  if  you  feel  able  to  tell 
us  how  it  all  happened,  it  '11  save  time  and  ease 
your  mind.  This  is  Mr.  Partin,  the  sheriff." 

Mrs.  Morris  looked  at  the  backs  of  the  men  in 
front  of  her  ;  at  their  heads  that  were  so  studi- 
ously held  in  position  that  they  could  not  even 
have  glanced  at  each  other  ;  then  up  at  her  hus- 
band, appealingly. 

"  Tell  it,"  he  said,  quietly,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
hers  that  were  wrung  together  in  her  lap.  "  You 
sent  Aggie  to  catch  the  chickens,  and  the  dog 
went  with  her  ?" 

"Yes,"  fixing  her  eyes  on  his  ;  "  and  I  sent" — 
she  stopped  with  a  shiver,  and  her  husband  said, 
"Abram"  —  "to  cut  some  bushes  to  make  a 
broom,"  she  went  on.  "  I  had  been  for  a  walk  to 
the  old  house,  and  as  I  came  back  I  laid  my  gloves 
and  a  bit  of  vine  on  the  steps,  intending  to  return 
at  once  ;  but  I  wished  to  see  if  the  boat  was  safe, 
for  the  water  was  rising  so  rapidly."  She  paused, 
as  if  to  catch  her  breath,  then,  with  her  eyes  still 
fixed  on  her  husband,  she  went  on,  "  I  did  not 
think  that  it  was  safe,  and  I  untied  the  rope  and 
picked  up  the  paddle  that  was  lying  on  the  dam, 

37 


AN    INCIDENT 

intending  to  drag  the  boat  farther  up  and  tie  it 
to  a  tree."  She  stopped  again.  Her  husband 
put  his  arm  about  her. 

"  And  then  ?"  he  said. 

"  And  then — something,  I  don't  know  what ; 
not  a  sound,  but  something — something  made  me 
turn,  and  I  saw  him — saw  him  coming — saw  him 
stealing  up  behind  me — with  the  hatchet  in  his 
hand,  and  a  look — a  look  " — closing  her  eyes  as  if 
in  horror — "  such  an  awful,  awful  look!  And 
everybody  gone.  Oh,  John  !"  she  gasped,  and 
clinging  to  her  husband,  she  broke  into  hysterical 
sobs,  while  the  judge  gripped  his  walking-stick 
and  cleared  his  throat,  and  the  sheriff  swore 
fiercely  under  his  breath. 

"  I  was  paralyzed,"  she  went  on,  recovering  her- 
self, "  and  when  he  saw  me  looking  he  stopped. 
The  next  moment  he  threw  the  hatchet  at 
me,  and  began  to  run  towards  me.  The  hatchet 
struck  my  foot,  and  the  blow  roused  me,  and  I 
sprang  into  the  boat.  There  were  no  trees  just 
there,  and  jumping  in,  I  pushed  the  boat  off  into 
the  deep  water.  He  picked  up  the  hatchet  and 
shook  it  at  me,  but  the  water  was  too  deep  for 
him  to  reach  me,  and  he  ran  back  along  the  dam 
and  turned  towards  the  railroad  embankment. 
I  was  so  terrified  I  could  scarcely  breathe ;  I 
pushed  frantically  in  and  out  between  the  trees, 
farther  and  farther  into  the  swamp.  I  was  afraid 
that  he  would  go  round  to  the  bridge  and  come 
down  the  bank  to  where  the  outlet  from  the 
swamp  is  and  catch  me  there,  but  in  a  little  while 
38 


AN    INCIDENT 

I  saw  where  the  rising  water  had  broken  the  dam, 
and  the  current  was  rushing  through  and  out  to 
the  river.  The  current  caught  the  boat  and 
swept  it  through  the  break.  Oh,  I  was  so 
glad !  I  am  so  afraid  of  water,  but  not  then. 
I  used  the  paddle  as  a  rudder,  and  to  push 
floating  timber  away.  My  foot  was  hurting 
me,  and  I  looked  at  last  and  saw  that  it  was 
cut/' 

A  groan  came  from  the  judge,  and  the  sheriff's 
head  drooped. 

"  All  day  I  drifted,  and  all  night.  I  was  so 
thirsty,  and  I  grew  so  weak.  At  daylight  this 
morning  I  found  myself  in  a  wide  sheet  of  water, 
with  marshes  all  round,  and  I  saw  a  steamboat 
coming.  I  tied  my  handkerchief  to  the  paddle 
and  waved  it,  and  they  picked  me  up.  And,  John, 
I  did  not  tell  them  anything  except  that  the  fresh- 
et had  swept  me  away.  They  were  kind  to  me, 
and  a  friendly  woman  bound  up  my  foot.  We 
got  to  town  this  morning  early,  and  the  captain 
lent  me  five  dollars,  John — Captain  Meakin — so 
I  telegraphed  you,  and  took  a  carriage  to  the  sta- 
tion and  came  out.  Have — have  you  caught  him  ? 
And,  oh — but  I  am  afraid — afraid  !"  And  again 
she  broke  into  hysterical  sobs. 

She  asked  no  explanation.  The  negro's  guilt 
was  so  burned  in  on  her  mind  that  she  was  sure 
that  all  knew  it  as  well  as  she. 

"  You  need  have  no  further  fears,"  her  husband 
comforted.  And  the  judge  shook  his  head,  and 
the  sheriff  swore  again. 

39 


AN    INCIDENT 

A  white-haired  woman  in  rusty  black  stood 
talking  to  a  negro  convict.  It  was  in  a  stockade 
prison  camp  in  the  hill  country.  She  had  been  a 
slave-owner  once,  long  ago,  and  now  for  her  mis- 
sion -  work  taught  on  Sundays  in  the  stockade, 
trying  to  better  the  negroes  penned  there. 

This  was  a  new  prisoner,  and  she  was  asking 
him  of  himself. 

"  How  long  are  you  in  for  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Fuhrebber,  ma'am  ;  fuh  des  es  long  es  I  lib," 
the  negro  answered,  looking  down  to  where  he 
was  making  marks  on  the  ground  with  his  toes. 

"And  how  did  you  get  such  a  dreadful  sen- 
tence ?" 

"  I  ent  do  much,  ma'm  ;  I  des  scare  a  white 
lady." 

A  wave  of  revulsion  swept  over  the  teacher, 
and  involuntarily  she  stepped  back.  The  negro 
looked  up  and  grinned. 

"  De  hatchet  des  cut  'e  foot  little  bit ;  but  I 
trow  de  hatchet.  I  ent  tech  um  ;  no,  ma'm.  Den 
atterwards  'e  baby  daid ;  den  dey  say  I  muss  stay 
yer  fuhrebber.  I  ent  sorry,  'kase  I  know  say  I 
hab  to  wuck  anywheys  I  is  ;  if  I  stay  yer,  if  I 
go  'way,  I  hab  to  wuck.  En  I  know  say  if  I  git 
outer  dis  place  Mr.  Morris  '11  kill  me  sho — des 
sho.  So  I  like  fuh  stay  yer  berry  well." 

And  the  teacher  went  away,  wondering  if  her 
work — if  any  work — would  avail ;  and  what  an- 
swer the  future  would  have  for  this  awful  prob- 
lem. 


MISS   MARIA'S   REVIVAL 


MISS   MARIA'S    REVIVAL 


RELIGION  sat  easily  in  Kingshaven,  but  was  by 
no  means  neglected.  The  old  church  had  been 
added  to  more  than  once,  until  at  last  it  partially 
covered  the  grave  of  the  first  John  Tremelstoun, 
who  might  have  been  called  the  founder  of  the 
town.  But  it  could  scarcely  be  said  that  religious 
enthusiasm  had  caused  the  building  to  be  en- 
larged ;  it  had  to  grow  a  little  in  order  to  accom- 
modate the  population,  which,  though  it  increased 
only  naturally,  yet  did  increase,  and  there  being 
no  rival  house  of  worship  in  the  place,  the  old 
church  had  to  be  added  to. 

In  the  thirties,  however,  there  was  a  revival ; 
it  could  be  called  nothing  else,  even  though  ex- 
tremely quiet ;  for  the  people  waked  up  spiritually, 
and  in  a  way  that  went  against  all  the  teachings 
of  the  past,  against  all  the  training  and  customs, 
and  that  amounted  almost  to  a  scandal.  Indeed, 
the  extremely  conservative  people  said,  in  so 
many  words,  that  it  "  was  scandalous  to  let  a 
stranger  and  a  Baptist  turn  the  town  topsy-turvy." 
Nevertheless  it  was  done,  and  many  who  went  to 

43 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

scoff  remained  to  pray.  The  meetings  were  held 
in  the  Sunday-school  room  day  after  day  for  a 
week,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  Kingshaven 
was  a  new  place,  and  a  Baptist  church  was  pro- 
jected. 

This  awakening  was  epoch-making,  and  super- 
seded, once  for  all,  the  war  of  1812  as  the  thing  to 
date  from.  Indeed,  the  war  of  1812  was  scarcely 
ever  mentioned  again,  and  the  effects  of  the  re- 
vival were  not  only  numerous,  but  apparently 
everlasting.  Among  other  things,  the  marriage 
of  one  of  the  youngest  and  loveliest  of  Kings- 
haven's  daughters  to  a  missionary  was  thought 
to  be  due  entirely  to  the  arousing  visit  of  the 
Baptist  preacher.  Not  that  this  marriage  fol- 
lowed immediately  on  the  stranger's  visit ;  far 
from  it;  the  young  woman  had  scarcely  finished 
teething  when  the  revival  took  place  ;  but  in  a 
town  as  conservative  as  Kingshaven  even  so 
ephemeral  a  thing  as  a  revival  remained  new  for 
a  long  time.  So  this  marriage  was  looked  on  as 
one  of  the  most  decided  results  of  the  revival ; 
because,  unless  the  environment  of  everybody 
had  been  spiritually  changed,  no  one  could  pos- 
sibly have  married  a  missionary  and  have  gone 
to  live  in  China. 

When  all  was  done  and  said,  and  the  girl  gone, 
it  was  found  that  a  great  fillip  had  been  given  to 
the  cause  of  foreign  missions,  and  the  religious 
papers  were  read  far  more  diligently  than  ever 
before ;  and  when  letters  began  to  appear  in  their 
columns  signed  by  Margaret  St.  Clair,  the  papers 

44 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

became  fashionable,  and  those  persons  who  had 
believed  in  the  revival  and  in  Margaret  St.  Clair's 
marriage  became  more  important,  and  assumed 
an  "I-told-you-so"  air  that  was  to  some  people 
extremely  irritating.  It  was  thus  it  affected  Miss 
Maria  Cathcart,  one  of  the  aunts  of  the  town. 
She  remembered  the  days  when  the  diocesan  con- 
vention, which  was  the  spiritual  event  of  the 
year,  and  the  races,  which  were  the  secular  event 
of  the  year,  were  always  arranged  to  fall  together, 
and  were  most  harmoniously  mingled,  and  she 
had  never  been  brought  to  say  that  it  was  even 
incongruous,  much  less  wrong.  She  had  disap- 
proved entirely  of  the  revival,  and  had  declared 
that  those  who  had  announced  themselves  as 
"  converted  "  had  cast  a  slur  on  their  forefathers. 
She,  for  one,  required  no  change  in  her  religion ; 
those  who  were  gone  had  been  good  people,  and 
nobody  could  ever  have  changed  them. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Maria  prayed  very  earnestly 
for  her  niece  Margaret,  and  wrote  to  her  regularly 
and  lovingly  ;  but  she  did  not  give  to  China  ;  for 
she  could  not  divert  her  charity  fund  from  the 
channels  in  which  it  had  always  flowed,  and  she 
was  not  able  to  give  more;  for  long  division 
makes  short  provision,  and  if  the  division  of  the 
family  property  for  generations  had  not  in  her 
case  made  short  provision,  it  had  at  least  made 
limited  provision.  She  was  not  poor,  for  she  had 
her  comfortable  house  and  servants,  and  a  regular, 
if  small,  income  from  the  family  estate ;  she  had 
her  little  carriage  and  her  fat  little  horse ;  she 
45 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

could  not  have  less ;  for  in  Kingshaven  the  ladies 
lived  in  almost  Eastern  seclusion,  and  never 
walked — except  to  afternoon  service  on  Sundays, 
when  the  overfed  horses  and  servants  were  sup- 
posed to  need  rest. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  whole  town 
walking  across  the  wide  greens  and  down  the 
shady  streets  to  the  old  church  in  the  middle  of 
the  church-yard,  where  all  their  dead  lay  under 
the  great  live-oaks  and  swaying  moss.  It  was  not 
a  very  tidy  graveyard,  but  it  was  solemn  and 
beautiful,  and  it  gave  one  a  reverential  feeling. 
Time,  and  the  genuine  faith  and  love  of  those 
buried  there,  and  of  those  who  had  buried  them, 
transformed  the  place,  maybe,  and  hallowed  it. 
People  lowered  their  voices  when  they  came  in- 
side the  high  walls,  and  ceased  talking  altogether 
by  the  time  they  reached  the  church  door ;  and 
the  young  men  who  waited  for  the  young  women 
after  service — for  even  in  Kingshaven  this  thing 
was  done — waited  for  them  outside  the  big  gates. 

It  was  a  pleasant  day  in  May  when  Miss  Maria 
ordered  her  little  carriage,,  and  told  her  maid 
Kizzy  to  put  her  cap  into  a  covered  basket  and 
her  knitting  into  her  reticule,  and  had  herself 
driven  to  see  her  cousin,  old  Mrs.  George  Bullen. 
To  "  spend  the  morning  "  was  one  of  the  habits 
of  Kingshaven,  and  this  was  what  Miss  Maria 
purposed  doing.  She  was  very  fond  of  her 
cousin  Bullen  ;  and  then,  Miss  Sophia  having  a 
large  correspondence  with  the  outside  world,  and 
Miss  Phoebe  being  thoroughly  practical  and  inter- 
46 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

ested  in  everything,  Miss  Maria  found  a  morning 
spent  there  a  very  pleasant  thing,  and  always 
came  away  feeling  herself  fully  abreast  of  the 
times. 

Old  Mrs.  Bullen  sat  in  her  arm-chair;  Miss 
Sophia,  in  her  low  sewing  -  chair,  was  reading 
aloud  ;  and  Miss  Phoebe,  in  a  higher,  straighter 
chair,  near  a  window,  was  making  a  cap  for  her 
mother. 

"  I  see  Cousin  Maria's  carriage  coming  across 
the  green,"  she  said,  interrupting  her  sister. 
"  She  must  have  a  letter  from  Margaret." 

"  Possibly  she  has  heard  of  this  Mr.  Bowers  who 
has  come,"  Miss  Sophia  answered. 

"  I  doubt  that,"  and  Miss  Phoebe  rose.  "  I'll  go 
down  and  meet  her."  So  she  did,  giving  orders 
on  the  way  for  cake  and  wine  to  be  brought  up 
to  Mrs.  Bullen's  room  ;  then  she  waited  in  the 
wide  shaded  doorway  until  Miss  Maria  arrived. 
"  So  glad  to  see  you,  Cousin  Maria,"  she  said. 
"Mamma  is  quite  well  to-day." 

"  I  have  come  to  hear  all  the  news,"  Miss  Maria 
answered,  as  she  slowly  mounted  the  stairs.  "  Liv- 
ing alone  as  I  do,  one  hears  nothing.  Ah,  Polly, 
how  well  you  are  looking  !"  she  went  on,  as  she 
entered  Mrs.  Bullen's  room.  "Your  daughters 
take  such  good  care  of  you !" 

"You  are  looking  well  yourself,  Maria,"  Mrs. 
Bullen  answered.  "Take  off  your  bonnet,  my 
dear,  and  sit  near  me  here  out  of  the  wind. 
What  is  the  news  ?" 

"  Asking  me  for  news  !  Indeed,  I  have  come 
47 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

here  for  that  very  thing.  Sophia  has  more  letters 
than  anybody  in  the  town,  and  Phoebe  is  such  a 
grand  manager  !  Why,  even  at  the  sewing-school 
her  negroes  do  better  than  any  others.  Heard 
from  Cicely  yet  ?" 

"Yes;  she  is  to  send  Dick  and  the  two  little 
girls  to  us  very  soon.  And  what  do  you  hear 
from  Margaret?" 

"  Nothing  since  I  was  here  last ;  she  might  be 
dead  and  buried  for  weeks  before  we  could  hear. 
I  never  thought  that  I  should  live  to  see  one  of 
my  family  a  missionary.  You  need  not  remon- 
strate, Sophia,"  shaking  her  head  ;  "  I  shall  never 
approve  of  it — never  /" 

"  Have  you  heard  of  Mr.  Bowers  ?"  Miss  Sophia 
asked. 

"Bowers?"  —  putting  down  her  knitting  and 
looking  over  the  top  of  her  spectacles — "  who  is 
Bowers  ?" 

"He  is  staying  at  Eliza  Tremelstoun's;  he  has 
just  come  over  from  China,  and  is  begging  through 
the  country  for  money  ;  he  is  going  to  preach 
to-morrow  morning.  He  came  yesterday  even- 
ing on  the  boat.  No  one  expected  him,  and 
Cousin  James  happened  to  be  on  the  Bay,  and, 
seeing  that  he  was  a  clergyman,  he  spoke  to  him. 
He  had  brought  letters  from  Cousin  Richard 
Denny,  so  Cousin  James  took  him  to  his  house." 

"Of  course  if  he  had  letters  from  Richard 
Denny  he  must  be  a  person  of  some  distinction," 
Mrs.  Bullen  said.  "Richard  is  very  careful  in 
such  matters." 

48 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

"  But  a  clergyman,  mamma,"  Miss  Sophia  re- 
monstrated, "would  have  a  right  to  hospital- 
ity." 

"  Not  without  proper  letters  ;"  and  Miss  Maria 
reared  her  head  back  with  much  dignity.  "  You 
got  that  from  that  Baptist  man,  Sophia.  You 
have  never  been  the  same  since  that  disagreeable 
time  when  everything  was  upset.  I  have  never 
given  in  to  those  teachings,  and  I  never  shall. 
But  for  that  revival — and  until  that  time  I  had 
never  heard  of  revivals  except  among  negroes — 
my  niece  Margaret  would  never  have  gone  galli- 
vanting off  to  China  on  any  such  wild-goose 
chase  ;  and  I  don't  intend  to  encourage  this  man, 
for  the  first  thing  we  know  we  shall  have  another 
revival  on  our  hands,  and  I  do  not  approve  of 
such  things." 

"But  you  will  surely  go  to  church,  Maria," 
Mrs.  Bullen  said.  "If  it  were  in  the  week  you 
might  stay  away,  but  to  stay  away  on  Sunday 
would  cause  a  great  many  remarks — it  would  be 
very  disagreeable." 

"/am  anxious  to  meet  him,"  Miss  Sophia  put 
in,  looking  out  of  the  window  with  something 
like  longing  in  her  eyes.  "I  think  it  must  be 
glorious  to  go  out  and  work — to  spend  one's  life 
in  elevating  one's  fellow-creatures,  as  Margaret 
is  doing.  I — " 

"Sophia!"  and  Miss  Maria  turned  on  her 
sharply.  "Don't  you,  a  sensible  woman,  get  any 
such  nonsense  into  your  head.  There  are  plenty 
of  ordinary  people  to  go  out  and  save  Chinese 

D  49 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

souls  ;  ladies  and  gentlemen  are  not  meant  for 
such  work." 

"There  is  no  caste  in  souls,  Cousin  Maria," 
Miss  Sophia  answered,  laughing ;  "  and  there  is 
no  danger  of  my  ever  accomplishing  anything. 
Even  if  I  could  leave  mamma  and  Phoebe,  I  have 
no  strength." 

"  The  '  Lord's  mercies  are  ever  sure,' "  Miss 
Maria  said,  decidedly;  "and  even  your  delicate 
constitution,  Sophia,  is  a  mercy.  Polly,"  turning 
to  Mrs.  Bullen,  "you  should  let  this  make  you 
resigned  to  Sophia's  delicacy.  Think,  if  she  were 
strong,  what  might  happen  !" 

"  I  hope  I  have  never  rebelled,  Maria,"  Mrs. 
Bullen  answered,  "  and  I  hope  that  I  should  not 
rebel  even  if  Sophia  should  go  away  as  a  mis- 
sionary— but  I  think  it  would  kill  me." 

"Of  course  it  would  kill  you,"  Miss  Maria 
assented,  promptly.  "  If  I,  a  maiden  aunt,  was 
almost  killed  when  Margaret  went,  you,  a  mother, 
would  die  immediately — immediately.  But  I  am 
sorry  this  man  has  come,  and  he  would  never 
have  thought  of  coming  to  Kingshaven  but  for 
that  revival,  and  Margaret's  going  out  as  a  mis- 
sionary. I  wish  we  could  have  been  left  in  peace ; 
and  perhaps  the  Chinese  wish  so,  too.  I  am  quite 
sure  we  should  not  like  any  one  to  come  here  and 
worry  us  about  a  new  religion — I  am  sure  we 
should  not." 

Miss  Sophia  laughed.  "  Cousin  Maria,  we  have 
the  truth"  she  said. 

"  That  Baptist  minister  did  not  think  so,"  Miss 
50 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

Maria  retorted.  "It  is  twenty  years  ago  now, 
but  I  remember  it  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday 
how  he  roared  out,  'Ye  are  dead  in  your  sins!' 
And  I  got  up  immediately  and  left  the  room ; 
that  a  person  no  one  knew  anything  about  should 
speak  to  me  in  that  way  was  insolent.  But  the 
Chinese — what  worse  can  Margaret  say  to  the 
Chinese  than  that?  Only  I  hope  she  has  been 
too  well  brought  up  to  roar  as  that  man  roared." 

"That  may  all  be  so,  Maria,"  Mrs.  Bullen  an- 
swered, gently,  "  but  that  revival  did  great  good 
in  the  town.  Think  of  three  of  our  gayest  young 
men  being  turned  to  the  ministry — think  of  it ! 
That  was  a  great  blessing." 

"  You  can't  be  sure  of  that,  Polly,"  Miss  Maria 
returned  ;  "  even  though  they  are  now  middle- 
aged  men,  you  can't  be  sure  it  was  a  blessing  un- 
til they  are  dead ;  and,  blessing  or  not,  I  did  not 
think  it  was  dignified  to  be  converted  by  a  man 
outside  of  the  Church." 

"  But  you  will  go  to  church  to-morrow,  Cousin 
Maria,"  Miss  Sophia  urged.  "  There  can  be  noth- 
ing against  Mr.  Bowers ;  he  is  a  regularly  or- 
dained clergyman." 

"Well,  if  I  go  to  church,  it  will  be  because  it  is 
Sunday,  and  I  always  go  to  church  on  Sunday, 
and  not  because  I  am  the  least  interested  in  this 
man  or  his  mission ;  I  have  suffered  enough  in 
that  way.  I  never  was  more  shocked  in  my  life 
than  when  Margaret  told  me  what  she  intended 
to  do ;  but  in  these  days  people  do  not  seem  to 
realize  what  is  due  to  their  birth  and  position." 
51 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

"Won't  you  have  a  glass  of  wine,  Cousin 
Maria,"  Miss  Phoebe  asked,  "and  a  bit  of  cake?" 

"Yes,  my  dear — thank  you  !  And,  Sophia,  you 
may  right  my  knitting;  I  always  drop  stitches 
when  I  am  excited,  and  I  always  become  excited 
when  I  speak  of  missionaries  and  revivals.  There, 
my  dear,  take  it." 

Sunday  morning  saw  Miss  Maria  in  her  usual 
place  in  church.  But  there  was  no  humility  in 
her  bearing ;  rather  a  lofty  toleration  and  a  re- 
signed pity — presumably  for  those  who  had  de- 
parted, or  who  might  now  depart,  from  the  ways 
of  their  forefathers.  She  went  through  the  ser- 
vice with  an  air  of  aloofness,  and  did  not  sing  the 
hymns ;  and  when  the  tall,  thin  stranger,  with  a 
worn,  lined  face,  got  up  to  preach,  she  turned  her 
head  aside  to  look  out  of  the  window — to  the 
graves  of  those  who  had  lived  and  died  con- 
servatively. 

"Wist  ye  not  that  I  must  be  about  my  Fa- 
ther's business?"  was  the  text,  and  presently  Miss 
Maria's  eyes  came  in  from  the  conservative  dead 
and  fastened  themselves  on  a  tablet  to  a  former 
rector ;  a  little  later  they  moved  on  as  far  as  the 
chancel  railing,  then  gradually  up  the  steps  to  the 
figure  in  the  high  old  pulpit.  Nobody  saw  her, 
for  nobody's  eyes  seemed  able  to  wander  that 
day.  She  had  brought  her  usual  Sunday  offer- 
ing, which  she  deposited  in  the  plate,  and  she 
spoke  very  little  on  her  way  from  the  church  to 
the  carriage,  and  Miss  Sophia  smiled  to  herself 
as  she  saw  Miss  Maria's  preoccupied  manner. 
52 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

It  was  a  very  fine  sermon,  Miss  Maria  thought, 
as  she  ate  her  dinner — a  really  fine  sermon  ;  and 
a  preacher  like  that  should  not  be  wasted  on 
Chinese — certainly  not;  but  of  course  Richard 
Denny  would  not  have  given  him  letters  unless 
he  had  been  a  worthy  person — of  course  not.  She 
spoke  to  Kizzy,  the  girl  who  waited  on  table,  and 
told  her  how  thankful  she  should  be  that  she  was 
a  Christian  in  a  Christian  land,  and  not  still  a 
poor  deluded  heathen,  as  her  people  were  in 
Africa.  And  after  dinner  she  went  into  her 
cool  chamber  and  walked  about  with  her  hands 
behind  her,  thinking  still  of  the  sermon  and  of 
the  blessings  of  Christianity.  It  might  be  very 
disagreeable  to  the  Chinese  to  be  disturbed,  as 
she  had  said  to  Sophia  Bullen  the  day  before,  but 
still  it  was  good  for  them ;  it  was  a  necessary 
thing — yes,  quite  a  necessary  thing;  that  man 
had  shown  it  to  be  so.  And  that  had  been  an 
uncommon  sermon ;  the  more  she  thought  of  it, 
the  more  impressed  she  was.  How  blessed  to  be 
able  to  preach  in  such  a  way,  and  how  blessed  to 
hear  such  preaching;  how  blessed  she  had  been 
in  all  her  life ;  how  comfortable  she  was,  and  how 
good  God  had  been  to  her ;  and  how  sure  a  Chris- 
tian's hope  was !  Poor  heathen !  Poor  Chinese  ! 
How  sorry  she  felt  for  them ! 

She  extended  her  walk  to  the  front  piazza, 
which  was  on  the  shady  side  of  the  house.  How 
quiet  and  peaceful  it  all  was,  and  a  nice  breeze 
from  the  water  !  Her  lot  had  fallen  in  a  fair 
place,  and  all  who  had  gone  before  had  lived  in 

53 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

this  same  delightful  town,  and  had  died  in  this 
same  sure  faith.  Up  and  down  she  walked,  with 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her  and  her  face  filled 
with  peace  ;  then,  in  a  quavering  voice  that  was 
not  at  all  true,  she  began  to  sing,  "  How  firm  a 
foundation.'*  She  sang  it  all  through,  rendering 
the  last  verse  with  much  vigor,  her  voice  quiver- 
ing with  excitement  ;  then  she  walked  hastily 
into  her  room  and  went  down  on  her  knees.  Fer- 
vently she  prayed,  then  rose  up.  Alms  and  pray- 
ers went  together — of  course  they  did  ;  so,  taking 
a  key  from  a  drawer^  she  opened  her  wardrobe, 
and  inside  of  that  unlocked  a  money-box.  There 
was  her  supply  in  two  neat  piles,  and  she  took 
out  five  dollars.  Yes,  she  could  give  that  much  ; 
she  would  take  it  to  Sophia  Bullen  at  afternoon 
service,  and  ask  her  to  put  it  with  the  fund  she 
was  collecting  for  foreign  missions.  Perhaps  she 
had  been  wrong  in  her  views  of  missions  ;  but  of 
course  the  revival  was  another  affair  entirely, 
and  she  could  never  change  her  views  of  that. 
But  the  poor  heathen  !  And  again  she  began 
walking  up  and  down  the  piazza  in  the  pleasant 
summer  weather.  Poor  Chinese,  they  had  a  bad 
climate  ;  and  Margaret  had  always  been  so  good 
— not  very  sprightly,  though.  Perhaps  she  would 
help  the  deluded  things.  Poor  child,  she  must 
be  lonely  sometimes  ;  but  God  would  reward  her. 
Yes,  "  His  mercy  was  ever  sure."  Once  more 
she  lifted  up  her  thin,  old  voice,  this  time  be- 
ginning, "  When  streaming  from  the  eastern 
skies."  There  were  no  passers-by  to  hear  and 

54 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

be  amused  and  astonished  ;  and  if  there  had  been, 
they  would  have  said,  "  Only  Miss  Maria."  So 
on  she  sang,  wiping  her  eyes  over  the  last  verse ; 
for,  in  spite  of  all  her  comforts  and  friends  and 
relatives,  she  was  very  lonely  sometimes.  But 
she  finished  the  hymn  triumphantly — "To  see 
Thy  face  and  sing  Thy  praise,"  and  at  the  last 
word  she  retired  to  her  room  and  knelt  down 
once  more.  This  time  her  prayers  were  almost 
audible,  and  longer  than  before  ;  then  the  money- 
box was  opened  and  another  five  dollars  was  laid 
aside  to  be  sent  to  Miss  Sophia  Bullen.  Of  course 
she  could  give  ten  dollars— a  small  tithe  from  all 
that  God  had  given  her. 

"  Praise  God  !  praise  God  !"  she  said,  aloud,  and 
broke  forth  into  the  doxology  before  she  reached 
the  piazza.  This  time  she  sang  quite  loud  and 
long,  beginning  with,  "  There  is  a  fountain  filled 
with  blood."  How  good  God  was!  —  how  His 
blessings  surrounded  her  on  every  side  !  And 
she  sang  another  hymn.  How  joyful  she  felt ! 
She  must  pray  again.  She  prayed  aloud — for  all 
her  friends  and  relatives  ;  for  all  God's  children 
— then  laid  ten  dollars  more  on  the  pile  for  Miss 
Sophia  Bullen.  What  better  could  any  one  do 
than  push  forward  the  glorious  work  of  convert- 
ing the  world,  of  bringing  all  men  to  her  state  of 
happiness  ?  Think,  if  every  one  were  as  happy 
as  she  was  this  beautiful  afternoon  ! 

"  Forth  in  Thy  name,  O  Lord,  I  go  "—she  sang 
at  the  top  of  her  voice,  that  rang  through  the 
still  evening  air.  That  was  what  the  mission- 
55 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

aries  did ;  aye,  all  good  people  could  do  it.  She 
was  old,  past  sixty,  but  she  could  praise  and  pray 
and  give — yes,  give  of  her  substance.  Pray  once 
more ;  yes,  and  again  she  went  down  on  her 
knees,  and  afterwards  laid  another  bill  aside  for 
missions. 

"  Fain  would  I  still  for  Thee  employ 
Whate'er  Thy  bounteous  grace  has  given — " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  and  looked  at  the  pile  of 
bills— 

"  Good  gracious !"  she  cried,  "  if  I  don't  stop 
singing  and  praying,  I  shall  give  all  my  money  !" 
and  she  pulled  the  bell-rope  violently  ;  then,  lock- 
ing up  the  money-box  and  the  enclosing  drawer 
hastily,  she  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
holding  the  key  in  her  hand. 

Presently  her  maid,  Kizzy,  appeared. 

"  Is  you  ring  de  bell,  Miss  'Ria  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Kizzy,  I  rang.  Here  —  I  want  you  to 
take  this  key  and  keep  it  until  to-morrow  ;  never 
mind  if  I  ask  for  it,  you  keep  it.  Now  put  out 
my  bonnet  and  mantilla  ;  it  must  be  almost  time 
for  church." 

"  Ki !  is  you  gwine  chu'ch,  Miss  'Ria  ?"  the  ne- 
gro asked,  as  she  opened  the  wardrobe  doors, 
which  Miss  Maria  had  closed  a  few  moments  be- 
fore. "  I  been  yeddy  you  sing  summuch,  I  t'ink 
say  you  is  hab  chu'ch  up  yer — 'e  soun'  same  liker 
Vival." 

Miss  Maria  started. 

"A  'revival'!"  she  cried.  "You  are  foolish, 
56 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

Kizzy — an  extremely  foolish  girl.  A  *  revival'!" 
She  walked  up  and  down  nervously  for  a  moment, 
then  stopped,  while  the  maid  took  off  her  cap  and 
put  it  away  and  brought  her  bonnet.  She  put  it 
on  quickly,  then  her  mantilla  and  gloves.  Then 
Kizzy  caught  sight  of  the  money.  She  looked 
at  it  a  moment. 

"  Is  you  gwine  leff  dat  money  dey,  Miss  'Ria  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  No,  no,"  Miss  Maria  answered,  decidedly ; 
"  give  it  to  me  ;  that  is  to  go  to  the  heathen, 
Kizzy,"  and  Miss  Maria  folded  the  bills  together 
and  slipped  them  into  her  prayer-book,  that  went 
into  her  silk  reticule.  "  The  poor  heathen.  I  am 
going  to  take  it  to  Miss  Sophia  to  send  off  ;  it  is 
to  pay  the  preachers  to  preach  to  them,  Kizzy." 

"  Yes,  m'am  ;  is  dat  what  you  been  singin  'bout, 
Miss  'Ria,  gittin'  yo'  sperret  up  to  gie  dat  money  ? 
Dat's  de  way,  Miss  'Ria  ;  singin'  '11  sho  git  de 
sperret  up ;  w'en  we  niggers  gits  to  singin'  en 
shoutin',  we  ent  know  what  we  do,  but  I  ent  t'ink 
say  white  people  do  dat." 

Miss  Maria  hurried  away,  Kizzy's  words  ring- 
ing in  her  ears.  A  revival !  What  nonsense ! 
Miss  Sophia  Bullen  was  trying  on  her  spotted 
lace  veil,  that  fell  full  over  her  face,  when  Miss 
Maria  appeared. 

"  I  stopped  to  give  you  this  money,  Sophia," 
she  said,  "  for  missions." 

"  Oh,  cousin  !"  Miss  Sophia  cried,  "  can  you  give 
as  much  as  this  ?"  holding  the  bills  a  little  away 
from  her.  "  Is  it  not  too  much  ?" 

57 


MISS    MARIA'S    REVIVAL 

"I  don't  know,  Sophia,"  Miss  Maria  answered, 
almost  indignantly,  while  a  little  color  crept  up 
her  face  ;  "  but  I  do  know  this,  that  I  sang  and 
prayed  until  I  had  to  lock  my  money-box  and 
give  Kizzy  the  key  to  keep  for  me.  It  was  a 
most  ridiculous  proceeding  ;  but  that  is  the  mon- 
ey, the  result,  and  I  hope  it  will  help  your  cause." 

Miss  Sophia  smiled. 

"A  little  private  revival, cousin  !"  she  said, and 
kissed  the  old  lady  gently. 


FAITH   AND   FAITHFULNESS 


FAITH  AND   FAITHFULNESS 


"  God's  in  His  heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world  !" 

EARLY  in  the  sixties  the  town  of  Kingshaven 
was  surrendered  and  abandoned,  and,  on  enter- 
ing, the  Federal  army  found  the  place  deserted 
save  for  the  negroes.  The  people  had  only  a  few 
hours'  notice,  for  they  had  felt  quite  secure  be- 
hind the  one  small  battery  of  light  artillery  at 
the  mouth  of  the  river.  They  knew  nothing 
whatever  of  the  war-ships  that  were  approaching  ; 
but  they  did  know  that  the  battery  was  manned 
by  the  gentlemen  of  the  town,  and  commanded 
by  George  Bullen,  and  what  more  could  be 
needed  ? 

George  Bullen  had  warned  them,  and  had 
warned  the  government,  that  the  little  battery 
would  scarcely  be  heard  by  the  war-ships ;  was, 
indeed,  little  more  than  a  joke  ;  but  the  govern- 
ment either  agreed  with  the  ladies,  or  was  care- 
less whether  Kingshaven  fell  or  not.  So  the  bat- 
tery retreated,  and  the  war-vessels  only  waited 

61 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

for  the  tide  to  steam  up  to  the  town.  It  was 
during  this  short  delay  that  the  hegira  took  place, 
the  inhabitants  moving  in  a  body,  driving  away 
in  their  wagons  and  carriages,  taking  with  them 
what  they  could,  and  accompanied  by  many  of 
their  negroes.  By  night  and  by  torch-light  they 
marched  up  to  the  ferry,  across  which  they  were 
taken  in  flat-boats  to  the  main-land,  then,  some 
following  one  road  and  some  following  another, 
these  people,  who  had  lived  and  loved  and  dis- 
puted, who  had  wept  and  prayed  and  rejoiced  to- 
gether for  generations,  bade  each  other  farewell, 
and  went  away  into  a  wellnigh  unknown  world. 

Miss  Maria  Cathcart  cast  in  her  lot  with  her 
nephew,  Charles  St.  Clair,  as  being  her  nearest  of 
kin  ;  and  her  little  carriage  and  a  wagon  drawn 
by  one  mule  brought  away  for  her  and  her  ser- 
vants all  that  they  could  transport.  In  the  front 
of  the  carriage,  under  the  feet  of  Jack  the  coach- 
man, was  a  basket  of  silver  ;  on  the  seat  beside 
him,  a  box  of  Miss  Maria's  caps,  and  another 
basket  of  ancestral  candlesticks.  Inside,  piled  all 
about  Miss  Maria,  were  her  clothes  and  house 
linen,  and  in  either  hand  she  carried  a  cut-glass 
decanter.  The  wagon  behind  was  driven  by 
Kizzy,  Miss  Maria's  maid,  who  was  the  wife  of 
the  coachman,  and  in  it  were  Kizzy's  little  chil- 
dren and  the  children  of  other  servants,  and  all 
that  could  be  saved  of  household  stuff.  Behind 
came  other  carriages  and  wagons,  and  many 
negroes  walking  with  their  bundles  on  their  backs 
— a  patriarchal  procession  ;  but  Jack  and  Miss 

62 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

Maria  were  in  the  lead,  because,  Mr.  St.  Clair 
having  to  go  with  his  company  to  join  the  army, 
Jack,  as  the  oldest  and  most  responsible  negro, 
had  the  care  of  the  party  as  they  journeyed  to 
the  nearest  town  within  the  Southern  lines,  from 
whence  they  were  transported  by  rail  to  the  in- 
terior. 

Miss  Maria  and  the  St.  Clairs  took  a  house 
together,  and  Jack  hired  out  the  negroes  and 
collected  the  wages,  and  took  care  of  .the  place 
they  had  rented,  and  things  were  more  comfort- 
able than  could  have  been  expected. 

"  Indeed,  we  get  along  famously,"  Miss  Maria 
asserted  ;  "we  have  everything  quite  decent,  and 
Jack  is  a  very  good  servant — butler,  coachman, 
overseer,  and  several  other  things  rolled  into  one ; 
and  Kizzy  is  doing  admirably  ;  yes,  we  are  sur- 
prisingly comfortable,  and  I  am  most  thankful." 

One  day  the  news  came  of  her  nephew's  death 
— killed  in  Virginia.  It  was  a  dreadful  blow,  and 
the  results  which  followed  were  most  disastrous 
to  Miss  Maria,  for  her  nephew's  widow  took  her 
many  children  and  went  to  her  own  parents. 
Jack  and  Kizzy  declared  that  it  was  "  berry  ha'd 
fuh  Miss  'Ria  to  be  left  wid  nuttin'  but  niggers  "; 
but  Miss  Maria,  who  had  no  idea  of  being  under 
obligations  or  of  being  a  burden,  bore  it  very 
quietly. 

So  the  niece  and  the  children  went  away,  the 
children  very  reluctantly  and  with  many  tears, 
and  Miss  Maria  moved  into  two  rooms  on  the 
sunniest  corner  of  the  ramshackle  old  house,  the 

63 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

owner  agreeing  to  let  her  have  them  for  a  nomi- 
nal rent,  seeing  that  in  the  town  houses  were 
going  begging. 

The  neighbors  seemed  to  feel  with  old  Jack 
and  Kizzy  that  Miss  Maria  had  been  hardly 
treated,  and  became  more  friendly. 

But  worse  times  came  :  old  Jack  died.  Kizzy 
and  Miss  Maria  did  everything  possible,  and  also 
the  doctor  and  the  neighbors,  but  nothing  could 
save  him.  After  this  Miss  Maria  began  to  feel 
the  want  of  money.  She  sold  the  mule  and 
wagon,  and  later  her  little  horse  and  carriage  ; 
but  she  did  it  quite  pleasantly,  not  alluding  to  her 
needs.  She  and  Kizzy  consulted  as  to  ways  and 
means,  and  Kizzy  took  in  washing,  and  her  little 
daughter  Milly  became  Miss  Maria's  maid. 

The  surrender  came,  and  with  it  came  absolute 
demoralization.  This  was  a  black  period — a  black- 
ness that  involved  the  whole  country — and  Kizzy 
spent  much  of  it  leaning  over  the  back  gate  abus- 
ing the  refugee  negroes  she  knew,  as  one  after 
another  they  came  to  ask  if  she  were  going  home. 

"Goin'  back  home  !"  she  repeated,  scornfully. 
"What  you  got  down  dey  to  go  to?  Who  is 
gwine  gie  you  bittle  en  close  ?  You  foolish  ;  you 
t'ink  say  'kase  you  free  dese  t'ings  is  gwine  grow 
on  de  tree.  No,  I  ain't  goin';  I  gwine  stay  right 
yer  wid  Miss  5Ria.  Enty  I  done  promise  Jack 
say  I  would  stay  ?  Enty  I  got  house  yer  f uh  me 
en  my  chillun  ;  enty  I  got  fire,  en  close,  en  bittle  ? 
No,  I  ain't  goin'.  En  I  ain't  t'ink  say  you  would 
leff  missis  like  dis  ;  'fo'  Gawd,  I  ain't  t'ink  it !" 

64 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

"  Sis  Kizzy,  I  'bleeged  to  go,"  was  the  usual 
answer ;  *'  I  cahn  stay  in  dis  po'  red-clay  country 
no  longer.  I  des  wants  to  smell  de  ma'sh  one 
mo'  time,  en  tas'e  dem  fish,  en  crab,  en  'yster,  des 
one  mo'  time ;  en  I  wants  to  feel  dat  good  light- 
wood  fire  'gen.  I  'clay,  Sis  Kizzy,  I  des  'bleeged  to 
go ;  but  I  cahn  tell  missis  good-bye  ;  dat  1  cahn 
do." 

And  they  did  not,  but  disappeared  one  by  one 
during  the  week,  until  Kizzy  alone  was  left.  She 
did  not  tell  Miss  Maria  all  at  once,  but  when  the 
last  one  was  gone  she  opened  up  the  subject  grad- 
ually, when,  one  morning,  she  was  putting  Miss 
Maria's  breakfast  on  the  table. 

"  I  des  wish  I  had  a  good  fish  f uh  you,  Miss 
'Ria,"  she  began  —  Miss  Maria's  breakfast  was 
bacon  and  hominy.  "  I  done  yeddy  Mingo  say 
turrer  day  dat  'e  was  hongry  en  trusty  f  uh  dem 
crab  en  fish,  en  I  ain't  shum  f 'om  dat  day  to  dis, 
en  I  spec'  say  'e  gone  home.  Mingo  ain't  no 
'count  nohow,  'ceppen  somebody  stan'  by  um  awl 
de  time  en  meek  um  wuck." 

Miss  Maria  looked  up.  "You  think  that  he 
has  really  gone  home  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  missis,  I  spec'  'e  is,  'kase  I  ain't  shum 
fuh  dese  free  day." 

"  Perhaps  they  will  all  go,  Kizzy,"  the  old  lady 
said,  making  no  motion  to  touch  her  breakfast. 

"  I  spec'  so,  missis,"  Kizzy  answered,  pushing 

the  little  dish  of  hominy  nearer  to  her  mistress ; 

"'kase  sence  Jack  daid,  en  Mass'  Cha'lie  is  kill,  de 

nigger  ain't  feel  like  dey's  got  no  mawsa ;  en  now 

E  65 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

when  people  tell  um  dey  is  free,  den  dey  awl  t'ink 
say  if  dey  kin  git  back  home  t'ings  is  gwine  be 
des  like  dey  is  always  be." 

Miss  Maria  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  the 
light  kindled  in  her  bright  old  eyes,  and  she  drew 
herself  up.  "  They  are  very  ungrateful,  Kizzy," 
she  said,  "  and  forget  that  I  have  cared  for  them 
all  their  lives,  and  that  now  they  ought  to  care 
for  me.  I  hope  that  you,  Kizzy,  will  be  better  be- 
haved, for  you  must  remember  that  you  have  lived 
in  the  house  since  you  were  two  years  old — in- 
deed, your  mother  died  before  you  were  two  years 
old — and  that  for  more  than  thirty  years  I  have 
had  you  cared  for  and  have  provided  for  you.  But 
perhaps,"  she  went  on,  her  voice  softening — "  per- 
haps the  poor  things  were  homesick  —  perhaps 
they  were ;  I  am  homesick  myself  sometimes ; 
and,  oh,  my  country — my  poor  country  !" 

And  Miss  Maria  put  her  handkerchief,  a  piece 
of  old  linen,  to  her  eyes  and  wept ;  and  Kizzy, 
throwing  her  apron  over  her  head,  knelt  down 
by  her  mistress's  chair  and  sobbed  too,  begging 
pardon  all  the  time  for  crying  in  Miss  Maria's 
presence.  But  it  was  not  long  that  Miss  Maria 
wept — the  tears  of  old  age  are  hard,  but  they  are 
few — and  presently  she  wiped  her  eyes  and  blew 
her  nose,  which  seemed  to  recall  Kizzy's  self-con- 
trol, and  rising,  she  took  the  dishes  of  bacon  and 
hominy  off  the  table. 

"  Dis  is  done  git  cole,  Miss  'Ria,"  she  said  ;  "dis 
will  do  fuh  me  en  de  chillun  ;  I'll  git  you  some 
hot." 

66 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

So  the  old  lady  ate  her  breakfast,  and  when  she 
had  finished,  Kizzy  beat  up  the  cushions  in  the 
chair  by  the  fire  and  brought  Miss  Maria  her 
books  for  daily  reading,  then  went  away  to  her 
washing. 

After  this  it  seemed  to  Miss  Maria  that  the 
whole  country  had  dissolved,  and  her  cheerfulness 
wavered  a  little.  If  she  could  have  written  to 
any  one  to  ask  for  news,  or  have  known  where 
her  kinsmen  were — whether  in  prison,  or  killed 
in  the  last  battles,  or  gone  with  the  despairing  to 
Mexico — if  any  one  had  sent  her  a  line  or  a  word, 
it  would  have  been  a  great  help ;  but  there  was 
such  confusion  that  no  one  seemed  to  know  any- 
thing certainly,  and  she  knew  nothing  at  all.  For 
a  few  days  she  was  depressed,  then  she  took  her- 
self in  hand  and  gave  herself  a  good  scolding. 
Where  was  the  faith  of  her  youth  ?  Why  should 
it  fail  now, "  when  the  bread  she  had  cast  on  the 
water  in  Kizzy's  direction  was  returning  to  her 
in  such  substantial  fashion  "  ?  This  thought  made 
her  laugh  a  little,  and  she  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  her  two  bare  rooms  and  to  sing  her  hymns 
as  bravely  and  as  badly  as  in  her  old  Kingshaven 
home  ;  and  Kizzy,  hearing  the  quavering  voice, 
paused  over  her  wash-tub  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

Money  became  more  scarce,  so  Kizzy  began  to 
work  for  barter — milking  for  a  share  of  milk, 
cooking  for  food,  and  washing  for  a  return  in 
wood.  Meanwhile  Miss  Maria  got  one  or  two 
notes,  which  told  of  nothing  but  death  and  dis- 
aster, of  privation  to  the  extent  of  need,  and  of 
67 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

great  mortality  among  the  uncared-for  negroes. 
Again  Kizzy  came  in  and  knelt  by  her  mistress's 
chair  to  weep. 

"We's  better  off  wey  we  is,  Miss  'Ria,"  she 
comforted  ;  "  en  I  tell  dem  nigger  dey  is  foolish. 
Mingo  is  des  been  gone  'bout  free  munts,  en  now 
'e  daid — po'  Mingo !" 

"And  just  think,"  Miss  Maria  said,  "Mass 
George  Bullen  has  just  got  home;  he  has  been 
so  ill;  and  Miss  Phoebe  has  been  cooking.  Yes, 
Kizzy,  God  has  been  very  good  to  us,  for  at  least 
we  have  enough  to  eat  and  are  in  good  health. 
And,  Kizzy,  think  of  your  Mass  Tom  St.  Clair 
ploughing  in  his  field  barefooted !  Think  of  it — 
educated  in  Europe,  and  owning  three  planta- 
tions !  Poor  fellow !  poor  fellow !  And  his  wife 
cooking  and  washing.  Kizzy,  it  is  awful!" 

"  Yes,  missis,  it's  berry  bad,  m'am,"  Kizzy  an- 
swered; "en  we's  better  off  right  wey  we  is;  en 
ef  dem  triflin'  niggers  had  stay  wid  we,  dey  is 
been  better  off  too;  'kaze  who  know  wey  dey  is 
gone  now  dey  is  daid?  Nobody  kin  say,  'kaze 
dey  ain't  do  right  in  lefrin'  we  up  yer  by  we  seff. 
No,  dat  ain't  been  right,  en  I  tell  'em  so  'fo'  dey 
gone ;  en  Gawd  ain't  want  'em  ef  dey  ain't  do 
right — no,  m'am,  'e  ain't.  Please  Gawd,  some- 
body will  come  en  git  we  bime-by  —  please 
Gawd." 

So  Miss  Maria  and  Kizzy  set  themselves  to 
wait  patiently  for  this  "bime-by";  but  again  for 
several  days  Miss  Maria  could  not  sing. 

Cold  weather  came.     Cracks  were  everywhere 

68 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

in  the  old  house,  and  curtains  and  carpets  no- 
where. The  big  chimneys  took  a  vast  quantity 
of  wood  even  to  heat  them  so  that  they  would 
draw,  and  Kizzy  was  dismayed.  At  length  she 
and  Miss  Maria  came  to  the  conclusion  that  all 
the  furniture  had  better  be  moved  into  the 
warmest  room;  then,  by  having  a  fire  always, 
Miss  Maria  might  keep  comfortable. 

"  If  you  ketch  a  cole,  missis,  it  '11  be  berry  bad, 
m'am,"  Kizzy  agreed;  "en  now  ebbrybody  is  so 
po'  dat  nobody  ain't  gwine  t'ink  nuttin'  'bout 
yo'  baid  bein'  in  de  pahlor." 

It  was  dreadful  to  live  in  one  room,  Miss 
Maria  thought ;  but  how  much  better  than  Tom 
St.  Clair  ploughing  barefooted!  And  when  the 
move  was  made  she  declared  that  the  parlor 
looked  much  nicer  for  having  everything  in  it, 
and  it  was  much  more  sociable  to  have  things 
closer  to  her — even  poor  sticks  of  furniture. 

But  Kizzy  found  less  and  less  work,  and  she 
did  not  know  what  to  do  unless  she  hired  out  by 
the  month.  A  place  was  offered  to  her  by  a  new 
family  who  had  just  come  to  town — a  clergyman 
and  his  wife.  Kizzy  had  been  scouring  for  them, 
and  from  her  present  stand-point  they  seemed 
to  her  to  be  very  rich.  They  offered  her  good 
wages  if  she  would  come  and  do  all  the  work,  and 
she  might  spend  the  nights  at  her  own  home. 
She  had  a  week  in  which  to  decide ;  but  how 
could  she  do  it — how  could  she  leave  Miss  Maria 
and  her  own  little  children  all  day?  She  could 
take  the  youngest  with  her,  but  that  would  leave 
69 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

two  besides  Milly  at  home,  and  how  would  they 
keep  warm  ? 

The  day  before  Kizzy's  answer  was  due  was 
cold,  and  Kizzy  had  no  work  at  all.  She  thought 
a  long  time  while  she  mended  various  articles, 
sitting  on  the  floor  by  the  fire  in  Miss  Maria's 
room.  At  last  she  said  : 

"  Is  you  glad  fuh  simme  settin'  yer  en  sewin', 
missis?" 

"  Yes/'  Miss  Maria  answered,  looking  up  from 
her  book;  "it  seems  quite  proper,  Kizzy;  but 
how  is  it  you  are  not  working  to-day?" 

Kizzy  waited  a  moment,  then  said,  slowly,  "  I 
'ain't  got  no  wuck,  Miss  'Ria,  en  I  cahn  git 
none." 

"No  work  !"  Miss  Maria  repeated;  then,  after 
a  pause,  she  sat  up  straighter  in  her  chair  and 
looked  down  on  Kizzy.  "Why,  girl,"  she  said, 
"  what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  Miss  'Ria — I  'clay,  Miss  'Ria,  dat  is  de  trute," 
Kizzy  asserted,  so  mournfully  that  she  showed 
all  the  whites  of  her  eyes.  "  De  trute  is  de  light, 
Miss  'Ria,  en  dat  is  de  trute;  I  try  en  I  try,  en  I 
cahn  fine  nuttin'  to  do ;  no,  m'am,  'ceppen — " 
But  here  Kizzy  broke  down,  and  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head,  crying. 

"Well,"  Miss  Maria  said,  "excepting  where?" 

"  Scuge  me,  missis ;  I  know  'tain't  no  manners 
to  cry,  but  I  cahn  he'p  it,  Miss  'Ria." 

"Of  course  I'll  excuse  you,"   Miss  Maria  an- 
swered, rather  sternly,  for  she  did  not  know  what 
to  expect;  "but  what  does  it  all  mean?" 
70 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

Kizzy  wiped  her  eyes:  Miss  Maria's  sternness 
quieted  her. 

"  I  mean,  Miss  'Ria,  dat  I  kin  git  wuck,  but  I 
hafter  go  'way  from  home  to  do  it,  m'am.  I  kin 
come  yer  to  sleep  at  night,  but  I  muss  go  by 
daylight  in  de  mawnin',  en  come  home  after  da'k 
— yes,  m'am." 

"  Well  ?"  said  Miss  Maria. 

"Well,  m'am,  dey  won't  be  nobody  yer  but 
Milly,  Miss  'Ria,  en  de  two  nex'  chilluns — I'll 
teck  de  younges'  one  wid  me." 

"Well?"  Miss  Maria  said  again. 

"  En  who's  gwine  teck  care  o'  you,  Miss  'Ria, 
en  git  yo'  dinner  hot,  m'am?" 

"  Milly,"  Miss  Maria  answered. 

"  En  who's  gwine  teck  care  o'  de  chillun, 
m'am?" 

"  Milly." 

"  En  how  is  dey  gwine  keep  wa'm?" 

Kizzy's  voice  was  low,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  her  mistress's  face  like  the  eyes  of  a  dumb 
creature,  and  Miss  Maria  looked  at  Kizzy.  This 
was  the  critical  point.  To  have  a  fire  out  in 
Kizzy's  room  for  these  two  children  would  be 
dangerous  as  well  as  expensive;  to  send  them  to 
the  house  of  another  negro  would  be  expensive 
also,  and  not  altogether  safe ;  yet  to  expect  that 
they  should  sit  on  the  floor  in  Miss  Maria's  room 
was  to  Kizzy  far  more  presumptuous  than  to  ex- 
pect that  they  should  sit  on  the  floor  of  heaven. 
A  dozen  little  negroes  might  come  into  her  mis- 
tress's room  to  be  taught  if  Miss  Maria  pleased, 
71 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

or  to  serve  Miss  Maria,  but  for  her  to  ask  Miss 
Maria  to  let  her  children  stay  there  all  day  while 
she  was  gone  seemed  to  her  to  be  preposterous — 
to  be  reversing  things  and  asking  Miss  Maria  to 
serve  her!  It  had  somewhat  this  look  to  Miss 
Maria  too  for  a  moment,. then  she  saw  an  escape 
from  the  dilemma.  In  Kingshaven  she  had 
taught  all  the  little  negroes  who  lived  in  her 
yard,  every  day,  hymns  and  such  things;  so  to 
teach  these  children  would  be  only  to  keep  up 
old  customs.  It  might  entertain  her,  would 
surely  do  them  good,  and  at  the  same  time  save 
appearances  and  embarrassment  both  for  her  and 
for  Kizzy.  Still  looking  in  Kizzy's  eyes,  she  said : 

"They  may  stay  in  here,  Kizzy,  and  I  will 
teach  them ;  Milly  shall  give  them  their  dinner 
in  the  kitchen.  It  can  be  easily  managed,  I 
think." 

And  so  it  was.  Kizzy  cooked  food  for  the  day, 
and  left  that  for  the  children  in  the  kitchen, 
and  that  for  Miss  Maria  in  the  cupboard;  and 
the  children,  spotlessly  clean,  waited  in  the  back 
room  until  Miss  Maria  had  dressed  and  break- 
fasted ;  then  Milly,  with  stern  disciplinary  whis- 
pers, brought  them  into  Miss  Maria's  room,  and 
put  them  into  a  warm  corner,  from  which  coigne 
of  vantage  they,  sitting  cross-legged  like  little 
black  idols,  stared  at  their  mistress,  who  was  a 
part  of  their  faith ;  or,  with  eyes  that  turned  so 
far  round  in  their  sockets  as  to  seem  all  white, 
they  watched  Milly  as  she  pattered  about  putting 
things  to  rights.  And  Milly  developed  so  won- 
72 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

derfully  under  their  admiring  gaze,  and  skipped 
about  so  nimbly  and  assuredly  on  her  batter-cake 
feet  and  slim  little  legs,  that  Miss  Maria,  looking 
at  her  over  the  top  of  her  spectacles,  told  her  she 
would  equal  her  mother  some  day.  Whereupon 
Milly  fizzed  into  mirth,  like  a  siphon  of  Vichy, 
and  the  little  black  idols  in  the  corner  rolled  their 
eyes  from  Milly  round  again  to  their  mistress, 
and  fastened  them  there. 

The  weather  grew  colder ;  the  big  chimney  in 
Miss  Maria's  room  "  eat  wood,"  and  Kizzy's  wages 
made  very  scant  provision.  One  thing  after  an- 
other Miss  Maria  said  that  she  could  do  without. 
Butter  was  not  at  all  necessary,  nor  coffee,  nor 
sugar ;  milk  was  quite  enough  for  her  to  drink. 
Then  lights  were  not  necessary ;  Miss  Maria 
could  do  her  reading  in  the  day,  so  that  for  the 
evening  the  firelight  would  do.  Fuel,  too,  must 
not  be  burned  with  any  view  to  a  special  blaze 
for  the  sake  of  light.  Sitting  alone  in  the  dusk 
seemed  to  double  the  desolation,  and  putting  on 
two  shawls  and  her  rubbers  for  warmth  seemed 
to  deepen  the  poverty ;  but  it  could  not  be  helped; 
and  every  evening,  as  Kizzy  came  in  to  make 
Miss  Maria  comfortable  for  the  night,  to  bank 
up  the  precious  fire  and  to  take  the  children 
away,  she  seemed  to  bring  a  little  freshness  in,  a 
little  cheer ;  and  as  she  rubbed  her  mistress — in 
an  old-fashioned  way,  it  is  true,  but  soothingly — 
Miss  Maria  would  say  : 

"  We  are  one  day  nearer  to  going  home,  Kizzy  ; 
for  somebody  will  surely  come  to  fetch  us." 

73 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

"Yes,  missis,"  Kizzy  would  answer,  "somebody 
will  come  en  git  we  bime-by." 

Then  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile  Miss  Maria  would 
go  to  sleep  as  quietly  as  a  child,  and  Kizzy  would 
steal  away. 

One  day,  in  going  his  rounds,  the  new  clergy- 
man heard  of  Miss  Maria — of  her  age,  her  lone- 
liness, her  poverty,  and  her  cheerfulness.  It  made 
a  moving  story,  and  impressed  the  good  man  ; 
but  in  the  faithful,  humble  servant  "  Kizzy  "  he 
did  not  for  one  moment  recognize  his  wife's  dig- 
nified treasure,  who  had  introduced  herself  as 
Mrs.  Kezia  Adams.  He  was  full  of  the  story,  and 
at  supper  he  retailed  it  to  his  wife,  who  was  also 
deeply  moved.  They  did  not  observe  that  Kizzy 
left  the  room  hastily,  nor  that  they  had  to  ring 
twice  before  she  returned,  nor  that  when  she 
did  come  her  eyes  were  flashing,  and  her  head 
was  held  unusually  high.  Indeed,  they  were  so 
busy  planning  relief  for  Miss  Maria  that  they 
did  not  observe  Kizzy  at  all ;  but  very  little 
escaped  Kizzy  of  the  plans  they  made  to  send 
the  stores  they  would  buy  to  Miss  Maria  be- 
fore they  called,  so  that  she  would  not  trace 
the  gift  to  them.  The  things  should  be  sent 
in  the  morning,  and  they  would  call  in  the 
evening. 

"Think  of  her  having  so  little  wood,  and  no 
lights  at  all,  not  even  one  candle  !"  Mrs.  Jarvis 
said.  "  How  pitiful  to  sit  alone  in  the  dark  !  I 
wonder  if  she  would  use  a  stove ;  but  these 
Southern  people  are  so  devoted  to  their  open 
74 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

fireplaces  that  I  doubt  if  she  would ;  yet  these 
big  chimneys  are  dreadfully  wasteful." 

Mr.  Jarvis  shook  his  head.  "  To  send  a  stove," 
he  said,  "  would  be  to  tell  her  who  sent  the  things, 
and  she  might  not  accept  them.  Feeling  runs 
high,  you  know  ;  I  meet  it  at  every  turn — poor 
people  !" 

Kizzy  almost  dropped  a  dish  at  this  juncture. 
Her  white  people  poor  !  No  deeper  insult  could 
be  offered  to  ex-slaves  than  the  suggestion  that 
their  former  owners  had  not  been  born  in  the 
purple  and  with  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  and  Mr. 
Jarvis  unwittingly  had  offered  this  insult.  Kizzy 
was  in  a  fury. 

That  night  she  took  an  armful  of  wood.  "  If 
he  t'inks  I  is  po'  buckra  nigger,"  she  muttered, 
vindictively,  "  I'll  do  like  po'  buckra  nigger ;  en  if 
he  is  so  rich,  Gawd  knows  /  ain't  gwine  let  my 
missis  look  po'  'fo'  him — not  me.  Any  nigger  '11 
hab  better  ^manners  en  dat"  But  Kizzy  kept  the 
secret  of  the  coming  stores  to  herself,  for  she  had 
caught  the  idea  that  Miss  Maria  might  refuse 
them. 

The  next  morning  there  was  the  most  marked 
change  in  Miss  Maria's  room  ;  there  were  extra 
touches  everywhere,  a  much  larger  fire  than  usual, 
and  the  two  little  black  idols  had  disappeared. 
Gone  to  help  their  mother,  Milly  said. 

Just  as  Miss  Maria  finished   her  reading,  the 

front  door  was  heard  to  open  and  steps  sounded 

in  the  hall.     Miss  Maria  waited,  thinking  some 

friend  had  come  in  ;  then  hearing  the  door  close 

75 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

again,  she  sent  Milly  to  investigate  ;  then  follow- 
ing herself,  found  a  large  basket  and  an  uncov- 
ered box  filled  with  all  sorts  of  bags  and  bundles, 
addressed  to  Miss  Maria  Cathcart. 

Miss  Maria  and  Milly  stared ;  then  Miss  Maria 
said  : 

"  It  is  a  present.  How  kind  !"  Her  face  lighted 
up  like  a  child's.  "  You  can't  move  the  basket  or 
the  box,  Milly,"  she  went  on,  "  but  you  can  bring 
in  the  packages."  And  forthwith  Milly  began 
work  ;  and  sometimes  running  and  sometimes 
staggering,  and  at  all  times  puffing  with  excite- 
ment and  delight,  she  transported  bundle  after 
bundle  to  the  table  in  the  back  room,  Miss  Maria 
walking  back  and  forth  with  her,  touching  and 
pinching  each  thing  to  guess  what  it  might  be. 

"  A  very  handsome  present  indeed,"  Miss  Maria 
said,  when  everything  was  at  last  on  the  table — 
"  a  very  handsome  present.  Crackers  ;  very  good. 
Here,  Milly.  Coffee — butter — grits — rice — ginger- 
snaps.  Here,  Milly.  Tea — flour — candles — pickles 
— nuts.  Here,  Milly.  Sugar — lump-sugar.  Here, 
Milly.  Cheese.  Here,  Milly.  Bacon — lard — rai- 
sins. Here,  Milly."  By  this  time  Milly  was  holding 
her  apron.  "  And  wine,"  Miss  Maria  finished.  "  A 
very  handsome  present.  I  shall  put  some  in  the 
decanters  at  once.  Two  bottles  of  wine.  Suppose 
I  had  not  saved  the  decanters  !  A  glass  of  wine 
and  a  cracker  will  be  very  comfortable  at  twelve 
o'clock — very  comfortable  indeed  ;  quite  like  old 
times.  Get  the  scissors,  Milly." 

So  the  cork  was  poked  out  of  one  bottle,  and 
76 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

the  contents  divided  between  the  two  decanters, 
which  had  stood  on  the  high  mantel -piece  for 
safety.  Miss  Maria  placed  them  on  the  table,  with 
a  plate  of  raisins,  a  plate  of  nuts,  a  plate  of  crack- 
ers, and  a  plate  of  ginger-snaps,  and  her  only 
wine-glasses,  three  in  number  and  three  in  shape  ; 
then  she  stood  off  and  surveyed  it;  and  Milly, 
standing  on  one  foot  in  her  excitement,  surveyed 
it  too,  and  smiled  an  ear-tp-ear  smile. 

"Very  comfortable,"  Miss  Maria  repeated,  nod- 
ding her  head  at  the  table.  "  Put  on  more  wood, 
Milly." 

"  Missis  !"  Milly  cried,  returning  with  a  log  in 
her  arms,  "dey  is  a  big  new  pile  o'  wood  in  de 
back  ya'd — yes,  m'am." 

Miss  Maria  stepped  briskly  to  the  window. 
There  it  was,  a  very  large  pile  —  the  biggest  pile 
she  had  seen  since  leaving  home.  The  old  lady's 
face  beamed  as  she  folded  her  hands  together. 

uGod  is  good,"  she  said,  softly,  "very  good. 
Now  Kizzy  can  return  to  her  proper  duties.  Yes, 
with  -all  that  has  been  provided,  we  can  live 
decently  once  more.  Praise  the  Lord  !"  She  felt 
like  sending  Milly  off  immediately  to  call  her 
mother  home,  but  her  eyes  falling  on  the  boxes  of 
candles,  she  thought  of  something  she  wished  to 
do  at  once.  The  candles  must  be  put  into  the 
candlesticks — for  what  else  had  she  saved  them  ? 
So  from  the  mantel-piece  and  the  closet  all  the 
candlesticks  were  taken  ;  and  Milly,  seated  on 
the  floor,  rubbed  them  with  a  woollen  rag,  munch- 
ing the  while  from  her  store  of  confections  piled 
77 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

away  in  the  corner  ;  and  Miss  Maria,  hunting  up 
a  piece  of  white  paper  from  around  one  of  the 
packages,  cut  little  frills  with  which  to  make  the 
candles  stand  firm  in  the  sticks. 

It  was  a  very  busy  day  indeed,  Miss  Maria 
scarcely  wishing  to  stop  for  dinner  ;  but  by  the 
afternoon  the  candles  were  all  put  into  the  sticks, 
with  the  jaunty  little  frills  about  the  base  of 
each,  and  were  arranged — and  every  few  moments 
rearranged — about  the  room. 

The  big  branches  were  on  the  table,  where  the 
wine  and  other  refreshments  still  stood ;  the 
smaller  branches  were  on  the  mantel-piece,  flank- 
ed by  two  straight  candlesticks ;  the  others  were 
put  about  in  various  places,  for  Miss  Maria  had 
decided  that  she  would  have  a  plenty  of  light. 
The  candles  had  been  sent  to  give  her  light  and 
comfort  and  pleasure,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  dark 
she  would  gain  all  this  by  lighting  them.  Things 
had  been  very  bad,  but  they  had  taken  a  turn 
for  the  better,  and  she  was  weary  of  darkness  and 
loneliness.  In  the  back  room  she  had  stuck  the 
candles  into  bottles,  and  Milly  had  made  a  fire  in 
there  too,  so  that  her  mistress  could  go  in  and 
out  without  fear  of  taking  cold.  Miss  Maria  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  keeping  house  once  more ;  and 
all  being  arranged  to  her  satisfaction,  she  waited 
anxiously  for  the  evening  and  the  illumination. 
By  five  o'clock  she  and  Milly  were  in  a  glow  of 
light.  Fine  fires  were  blazing  on  both  hearths, 
and  Miss  Maria  was  walking  up  and  down  singing, 
when  a  knock  came  at  the  outer  door.  Not  a 
78 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

remarkably  loud  knock,  but  one  that  made  Milly 
spring  to  her  feet  and  Miss  Maria  stop  in  her 
walk.  The  neighbors  usually  came  to  the  inner 
door,  and  this  knock,  being  on  the  outer  door, 
was  a  stranger's,  and  being  loud,  was  a  man's. 

"  Put  another  log  on  the  fire,  Milly,"  Miss  Maria 
said,  as  she  stepped  over  to  the  glass  to  see  if  her 
cap  and  kerchief  were  straight.  "  It  must  be  the 
new  clergyman.  And  sweep  up  the  hearth,  quick- 
ly, before  you  go  to  the  door."  Then  Miss  Maria 
took  from  a  box  filled  with  dead  rose-leaves  one 
of  the  squares  of  old  linen  which  she  had  hemmed 
for  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  holding  it  by  the 
middle,  resumed  her  seat,  while  Milly  put  away 
in  the  corner  the  bunch  of  feathers  that  served 
as  a  hearth-broom. 

To  Milly  and  to  Miss  Maria  the  room  looked 
very  fine  and  cheerful,  while  to  the  strangers  en- 
tering it  seemed  inexpressibly  incongruous  and 
pathetic. 

Miss  Maria  rose  and  stepped  forward  to  meet 
them,  bowing  graciously,  and  extending  her  deli- 
cate hand  as  they  introduced  themselves  as  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Jarvis.  There  was  wonder  in  their  eyes, 
and  putting  it  down  to  the  brightness  of  her 
apartment,  Miss  Maria  was  pleased  that  they 
should  be  surprised. 

"It  has  been  such  a  cloudy  day,"  she  said, 
cheerfully,  when  they  were  seated,  uthat  I  lighted 
the  candles  early,  and  lighted  them  all.  I  enjoy 
light  and  warmth,  and  am  so  thankful  to  have  it ; 
of  late  it  has  not  been  plentiful  " — and  she  smiled 
79 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

a  little  to  herself  at  the  mild  way  in  which  she 
had  stated  her  case. 

"  It  looks  very  cheerful  indeed,"  Mr.  Jarvis  an- 
swered, slowly,  while  Mrs.  Jarvis,  suffering  "  pain 
and  grief  "  for  the  wild  waste  she  saw,  looked  on 
the  solidity  of  the  candlesticks  and  not  on  the 
candles,  and  on  the  sparkle  of  the  old  decanters 
rather  than  on  the  wine. 

"  A  kind  friend  has  sent  me  quite  a  batch  of 
nice  things,"  Miss  Maria  went  on.  "  Won't  you 
try  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  cake  ?"  She  rose  and 
filled  the  glasses  ;  but  Mrs.  Jarvis  declining,  the 
ceremony  was  between  Mr.  Jarvis  and  herself. 

"  Your  very  good  health,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a 
bow. 

"  Your  very  good  health,  madam,"  Mr.  Jarvis 
returned,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  suddenly  reverted 
into  his  own  grandfather. 

"  Things  have  been  very  bad  for  everybody," 
Miss  Maria  continued,  as  she  sipped  her  wine ; 
"  but  I  knew  that  they  would  get  better,  and 
they  have.  I  have  always  been  of  a  very  hopeful 
and  cheerful  disposition.  I  had  begun  to  think 
too  much  so  " — nodding  gayly — "  and  that  I  was 
being  chastened  for  it  ;  but  now  you  see  how  lit- 
tle good  the  chastening  has  done" — making  a 
gesture  that  took  in  all  the  flaring  candles — "  for 
at  the  first  opportunity  I  have  an  illumination, 
and  change  my  mind." 

After  this  the  conversation  ran  on  smoothly, 
but  chiefly  between  Mr.  Jarvis  and  his  hostess  ; 
and  to  Milly,  standing  at  attention  between  the 

80 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

strangers  and  her  prog  in  the  corner,  Miss  Maria 
seemed  a  new  being  —  so  quick  and  ready  of 
speech,  laughing  so  gayly,  and  gesticulating  so 
vivaciously,  but  with  no  mention  whatever  of 
woes  or  wants,  save  as  they  were  the  woes  and 
wants  of  the  country. 

And  Mrs.  Jarvis  felt  defrauded.  As  they  closed 
the  gate  she  said,  "  Those  candles  should  have 
lasted  her  all  winter." 

And  her  husband  answered,  "  I  feel  like  spend- 
ing my  whole  salary  on  candles." 

Kizzy  was  enchanted,  especially  at  the  illogical 
command  to  come  home.  Her  eyes  and  teeth 
reflected  all  the  lights  ;  she  looked  over  the 
stores,  felt  the  height  and  length  of  the  wood- 
pile, deposited  the  three  little  black  idols  in  safe- 
ty, then  ran  back  to  Mrs.  Jarvis. 

"  I  cahn  come  yer  no  mo',"  she  said,  breathless- 
ly, to  that  astounded  lady  ;  "  I  got  to  stay  home. 
Miss  'Ria  Cat'cart,  wey  you  sen'  de  t'ings,  is  my 
missis." 

"  Is  she  sick  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am ;  but  we  hab  plenty  now,  en  I 
cahn  stay  yer  no  mo'." 

"  Miss  Cathcart  ought  not  to  take  you." 

"  Ki !  I  b'longs  to  urn." 

"  But  you  said  you'd  stay — " 

"  I  say  dat  when  we  'ain't  hab  nuttin'." 

"  You  promised." 

:<  'Kaze  we  'ain't  hab  nuttin'." 

"  You  must  keep  a  promise." 
F  81 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

"  Who  gwine  meek  me  ?  Nigger  do  what  'e 
wants  to  do,  en  what  'e  meek  to  do.  Who  gwine 
meek  me  ?" 

"  I  won't  pay  you/' 

"  You  'bleeged  to  pay  me  fuh  what  I  done  do, 
'kaze  it  is  done  do." 

"  Not  if  you  go  without  warning." 

"  I  muss  go." 

"Why?" 

"  'Kaze  I  wants  to,  en  'kaze  my  missis  wants 
me,  en  I  tired.  If  you  doan  pay  me,  well — you 
doan  pay  me  ;  I  cahn  he'p  dat  ;  but  I  gwine.  I'll 
sen'  somebody  fuh  cook  you  breakfuss." 

All  the  way  home  Kizzy  chuckled. 

"  Dey  call  me  po'  buckra  nigger  ;  I'll  do  like 
po'  buckra  nigger  !"  and  she  clapped  her  hands 
and  laughed  aloud  as  she  ran  through  the  dark- 
ness, and  remembered  the  stores  only  as  a  fur- 
ther revenge  on  Mrs.  Jarvis  for  the  imagined 
insult. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Jarvis  sent  Kizzy's  money,  but 
she  prophesied  dire  want  for  Miss  Maria  and  her 
menage ;  poetical  justice  must  take  account  of 
such  childish  improvidence. 

But  no  harm  came  to  Miss  Maria  ;  Mrs.  Jarvis 
herself  would  not  have  permitted  it ;  still,  it 
did  not  even  threaten,  for  before  the  stores 
were  exhausted,  Mr.  George  Bullen  came  to  bring 
Miss  Maria  and  her  retinue  home  to  her  own 
people. 

So  the  remaining  supplies  were  given  away 
with  much  generosity,  and,  to  Kizzy's  proud  de- 
82 


FAITH    AND    FAITHFULNESS 

light,  she  was  sent  with  a  pair  of  the  silver  can- 
dlesticks as  a  parting  present  to  Mrs.  Jarvis. 
For,  as  Miss  Maria  said  to  a  neighbor,  she  had 
not  been  able  to  pay  anything  towards  Mr.  Jar- 
vis's  salary,  which  had  mortified  her  very  much. 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 


"  KNOW  General  Stamper  ?"  and  the  speaker 
looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  wonder  in  his 
eyes  that  amused  me  ;  then  he  smiled.  "  Know 
General  Stamper — '  old  General  Billy  '  ?  Of  co'se 
I  do.  Where  were  you  raised  ?" 

"  Not  in  Alabama,"  I  answered. 

"  I  thought  as  much,"  came  with  a  ring  of  pity 
in  the  voice.  "  There's  nobody  in  this  State  has 
to  ask  who  is  General  Stamper." 

We  were  standing  outside  the  door  of  the  only 
thing  in  Booker  City  that  could  be  called  a  build- 
ing— Booker  City,  that  might  have  been  described 
as  a  "  wide  place  in  the  road." 

Over  the  door  of  this  building  was  the  sign,  "  G. 
W.  S.  Booker,  General  Merchant";  a  little  lower 
down  came  a  smaller  sign,  "  Post  -  office."  On 
either  side  the  shop,  and  out  behind  it,  stretched 
the  unbroken  pine-barren  ;  in  front  the  trees  had 
been  cut  away,  and  the  wheel  tracks  between  the 
ragged  stumps  showed  dimly  the  street  of  the 
future.  Beyond  the  stumps  came  a  ditch  that 
cut  through  the  sandy  soil  and  deep  into  the  red 
87 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

clay  ;  across  this  ditch  two  old  "  cross-ties  "  made 
a  bridge  to  the  railway. 

Across  the  railway  there  was  a  blacksmith's 
shed,  and  one  or  two  shanties  where  some  blood- 
less -  looking  people,  with  straight,  clay  -  colored 
hair  and  vacant  eyes,  made  shift  to  live.  And 
this  was  Booker  City. 

The  train  had  left  me  there  ten  minutes  before 
this  true  story  opens  ;  my  valise  stood  just  inside 
the  door  of  the  shop  ;  my  overcoat  was  buttoned 
against  the  chill  February  wind.  I  had  come 
straight  through  from  New  York,  sent  out  by  a 
great  railway  syndicate  as  a  sort  of  private  de- 
tective to  look  into  the  merits  of  Booker  City. 
By  profession  I  am  a  civil  engineer. 

"We  send  you  because  you  are  a  Southern 
man,"  my  chief  had  said,  "  and  will  therefore  un- 
derstand the  people  and  win  their  confidence.  I 
want  you  to  go  down  to  this  i  Booker  City/  and 
see  this  *  General  William  Stamper/  Look  the 
whole  thing  up  incog  ;  be  anything  you  like,  and 
draw  for  anything  you  may  want.  Here  is  a  map 
of  the  city." 

So  I  packed  my  valise  and  started  for  Book- 
er City.  Arriving,  I  asked  the  only  man  I  saw 
as  to  General  Stamper,  with  the  results  given 
above. 

"  Where  does  General  Stamper  live  ?"  I  went  on. 

"  'Cross  the  railroad  'bout  a  mile.  He  owns 
moster  this  county  ;  I  own  some,  though.  I 
own  this  store  and  down  the  railroad  'bout  a 
mile  ;  but  our  fam'lies  were  always  friends,  and 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

me  and  General  Stamper  persuaded  the  railroad 
to  have  a  station  here.  I've  got  Stamper  in  my 
name."  This  last  was  said  proudly. 

"And  you  got  the  station  in  order  to  make 
your  land  more  valuable,  I  suppose  ?"  in  a  mild 
tone. 

My  companion  turned  on  me  slowly. 

"Not  exactly,"  he  answered  ;  "for  it  couldn't 
be  made  much  more  valuable.  We've  got  coal 
and  iron  right  back  here  in  the  hills,  and  a  big 
syndicate  behind  us  ;  we'll  have  five  thousand 
people  here  by  next  month." 

"  Roosting  on  stumps,"  I  asked,  "  and  feeding 
on  pine  knots  ?" 

"  Maybe,  and  maybe  not,"  he  answered,  quiet- 
ly ;  "  and  maybe  by  that  time  you'll  have  money 
enough  to  come  back  and  see." 

"  If  not,  will  you  have  money  enough  to  lend 
me  a  dollar  or  two  ?" 

"  I'll  have  it,  you  bet ;  but  whether  I'll  lend  it 
to  you  or  not,  that's  another  question;  and  yon- 
der comes  General  Billy." 

I  looked  in  the  direction  indicated,  and  coming 
through  the  pines  I  saw  a  muddy  old  buggy, 
very  much  bent  down  on  one  side,  and  drawn  by 
a  gray  mule ;  of  course  the  harness  was  helped 
out  with  pieces  of  rope,  and  the  slim,  rascally 
looking  negro  boy  who  drove  was  ragged  ;  so 
natural  were  these  things  to  that  kind  of  vehicle 
that  I  scarcely  observed  them  ;  but  the  man 
pointed  out  as  "  General  Billy "  caught  my  at- 
tention instantly  and  firmly.  When  the  buggy 
89 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

stopped  I  saw  that  his  left  arm  and  right  leg 
were  missing,  but,  in  spite  of  that,  he  leaped  out 
quite  nimbly.  He  was  a  large,  ruddy  man, 
dressed  in  a  baggy  suit  of  gray  jeans,  with  a  soft 
black  hat  drawn  well  down  on  his  head,  and 
from  under  it  some  fine  gray  hair  curled  over 
his  coat  collar.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  deep 
set,  and  twinkled  as  merrily  as  if  a  third  of 
him  were  not  in  the  grave.  He  swung  him- 
self along  with  great  agility,  and  had  a  cheery 
voice. 

"  And  how  is  the  father  of  my  country  to-day  ?" 
he  cried,  as  he  hopped  into  the  shop.  Then, 
balancing  himself  skilfully,  he  hit  my  friend 
Booker  a  pretty  solid  blow  with  his  crutch. 
"  George  Washington  Stamper  Booker  !  By  gad, 
man  !  if  your  name  had  done  its  duty  it  would 
have  destroyed  you  long  ago  ;  every  day  I  am 
expecting  to  hear  that  it  has  struck  in  and  killed 
you.  And  your  name  ?" — leaning  on  his  crutches 
and  eying  me  keenly.  "You  look  very  familiar 
somehow." 

"  Willoughby  is  my  name,"  I  answered. 

"Willoughby?  The  devil !  Kemper  Willough- 
by?" 

"John  Kemper  Willoughby,"  I  amended,  in 
some  surprise. 

"Oh,  blast  the  John!  Here,  shake!"  extend- 
ing his  one  hand,  that  seemed  to  me  to  be  mar- 
vellously small.  "  What  kin  are  you  to  old  Kem- 
per Willoughby  of  Chilhowie  ?" 

"  Grandson." 

QO 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

"  Bless  my  eyes,  my  dear  boy  !"  and  he  wrung 
my  hand  painfully  almost.  "  I  wouldn't  take  a 
thousand  dollars  for  this  meeting ;  no,  sir,  not 
five  thousand ;  no,  not  Booker  City  itself,"  throw- 
ing back  his  head  with  a  ringing  laugh. 

It  was  a  sweet  laugh,  and  his  voice  had  a  tone 
in  it  that  made  me  think  of  my  father ;  his  face 
was  clean-shaven,  too,  like  my  father's,  and  his 
mouth  and  teeth  and  laugh  reminded  me  of 
Joseph  Jefferson. 

"  There  was  something  in  the  cut  of  you,"  he 
went  on,  "  and  in  the  setting  of  your  eyes,  that 
took  me  back  to  some  fig-trees  in  your  grand- 
father's back  yard.  You  looked  as  your  father 
Kemper  used  to  look  when  we  were  stealing  figs 
— it  was  not  really  stealing,  you  know;  only  Mrs. 
Willoughby  was  saving  the  figs  for  something. 
God  knows  what  women  save  things  for,  but  they 
are  always  doing  it.  But  you  looked  just  like 
him — surprised  and  amused,  and  a  little  disgusted 
with  yourself.  All  the  Willoughbys  look  alike — 
all  cut  out  of  the  same  piece  of  cloth.  See  here, 
General  Washington  Booker,  look  alive,  and  hand 
out  the  mail.  I  want  to  take  the  boy  home," 
rattling  on  without  drawing  a  breath.  "Fifty 
years  ago  we  were  in  those  fig-trees.  And  your 
father?" 

"  I  am  the  only  one  of  the  name  left,"  I  an- 
swered, briefly. 

"  Good  heavens  !" — taking  up  the  one  letter 
that  Booker  laid  on  the  counter — "only  one,  and 
there  used  to  be  such  lots  of  them — Willoughbys 
91 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

world  without  end ;  only  one  left — only  one  !" 
and,  leaning  on  his  crutch,  he  looked  at  me  sadly. 
" The  war,  I  suppose?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"  And  at  the  last  we  went  under,  all  for  nothing ; 
and  now  we  must  be  patient,  and  say  we  were 
wrong,  or,  at  the  least,  unwise,  and  forget  those 
who  lie  under  the  sod  !  Never  !  And,  by  gad, 
sir,  I'll  make  something  out  of  them — something  ! 
Forget,  sir  ?  No,  sir.  There's  too  much  of  me 
under  the  sod — me,  myself.  I'll  not  forget.  But 
come,  my  boy,  we'll  have  some  supper  and  a  talk, 
and  maybe  some  4  condensed  corn,'  ha  !  ha ! — '  will 
you  have  sugar  in  yourn  ?' — and  I'll  tell  you  about 
those  figs  your  dear  grandmother  did  not  save. 
Ah,  we  had  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  those  days — 
ladies  from  afar.  I  have  a  little  girl  at  home, 
God  bless  her !  She  keeps  house  for  me.  Come 
on  ;  where  are  your  traps  ?  Here,  look  alive,  you 
young  imp !" — to  the  negro.  "  Get  out,  sir,  and 
put  this  gentleman's  bag  in,  and  you  hang  on 
behind  ;  and  don't  you  dare  to  drop  off,  or  to  get 
hurt.  Get  in,  my  boy  " —  to  me.  Then,  calling 
back  :  "  Don't  answer  any  telegrams  without  con- 
sulting me,  Booker;  not  about  your  own  land 
even.  Do  you  hear  ?" 

"  All  right,  General." 

"  Now  we  are  off,"  as  with  wonderful  ease  he 
got  into  the  buggy.  "  You  can  drive,  of  course, 
and  will  not  be  afraid  of  a  runaway,"  laughing. 
"  Booker  City  has  not  made  my  fortune  yet,  so  I 
drive  a  mule ;  but  just  wait  a  little  bit — just 
92 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

wait.  I  will  sell  every  stump  and  tree  before  long, 
and  come  out  on  top.  Have  you  anything  to  in- 
vest ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  leaning  forward  to  thrash 
the  old  mule,  and  for  the  first  time  realizing  my 
position — almost  a  spy  !  Well,  I  need  not  be ; 
but  how  to  get  out  of  it  ?  Write  that  I  preferred 
not  to  report  ?  That  would  kill  Booker  City  as 
dead  as  Hector.  Write  what  had  come  to  me 
from  the  general's  talk  ?  Die  the  thought  and 
the  thinker  !  Besides,  what  had  come  to  my 
knowledge?  Nothing  really  ;  but  one  thing  was 
certain — I  could  not  be  his  guest,  and  at  the  same 
time  hold  my  present  position.  I  thrashed  the 
mule  again,  but  a  wave  of  the  ears  was  the  only 
answer ;  then  the  general  turned  to  the  back  of 
the  buggy. 

"Get  down,  there,  you  miserable  rascal!"  he 
cried.  "  How  dare  you  ride  at  ease,  and  let  a 
gentleman  exhaust  himself  on  this  beast !  Get 
down,  sir  ;  yes,  and  be  in  a  hurry."  The  riding 
at  ease  meant  that  Jupiter  was  hanging  on  to  the 
back  of  the  seat  with  his  hands,  while  his  feet 
were  clinging  to  the  springs  of  the  vehicle. 

He  dropped  off  now  as  nimbly  as  a  monkey, 
and  picking  up  a  stick  as  he  ran,  came  abreast  of 
the  jogging  mule  very  easily. 

"  Hi !  hi !  Git  up,  you  w'ite  debbil ;  git  up  !" 
he  cried,  prodding  the  mule  as  he  ran.  "  Hi !  hi ! 
I'll  make  you  know ;  I'll  make  you  go ;  I'll  poke 
you  troo  an'  troo — hi !  hi !" 

"  That's  you,  Jupiter,"  cried  the  general,  "poke 
93 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

him  lively  !  You'll  be  President  of  these  United 
States  yet — ha  !  ha  !  Get  up  now,  quick,  you 
lazy  dog,"  as,  with  a  grin  that  seemed  to  meet  at 
the  back  of  his  head,  Jupiter  made  a  dash  at  the 
buggy,  and  swung  himself  into  place  once  more. 
It  was  a  wild  race  we  were  having  then.  The 
mule  was  cantering,  with  his  ears  backed,  and 
his  tail  going  round  and  round  like  a  windmill. 

"  Negroes  and  mules  were  made  for  each  other," 
the  general  said,  as  he  pulled  his  hat  on  more 
firmly.  "  They  understand  each  other  in  a  way 
that  can  be  explained  only  by  affinity ;  and  to 
see  a  negro  on  a  mule  is  like  hearing  a  mocking- 
bird sing  on  a  moonlight  night  in  summer — the 
*  eternal  fitness '  is  satisfied." 

While  he  talked  we  had  come  at  a  rattling  pace 
through  the  pine  woods,  and  now  were  moving 
more  slowly  along  a  red  clay  road,  that,  fringed 
with  blackberry  briers,  ran  narrow  and  deep  be- 
tween rail  fences.  Presently  we  began  a  long 
ascent,  still  between  rail  fences,  and  the  mule 
settled  down  into  a  walk  once  more. 

"  We  are  nearing  home  now,"  the  general  went 
on,  "  and  soon  we'll  see  the  ancestral  roof-tree, 
which  will  be  turned  into  a  foundry  shortly,  I 
hope.  I  used  to  have  some  sentiment,  sir,  but 
poverty  unscrews  the  spinal  column  of  sentiment. 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  stand  living  from  hand  to 
mouth  here,  where  once  I  lived  on  the  fat  of  the 
land.  No,  sir.  I'll  sell  every  stick  of  timber, 
and  every  foot  of  land,  and  throw  in  the  malaria 
for  nothing.  I've  starved  long  enough  on  *  befo'- 
94 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

de-wah  '  memories.  I'm  sick  of  it,  and  it  is  not 
wholesome.  I  want  to  take  my  child  away  from 
this  African  atmosphere.  Her  blood  and  breed- 
ing will  show  anywhere,  sir  ;  and  with  a  few 
shekels  to  put  a  halo  around  her  head,  why,  she 
can  do  and  be  what  she  likes — God  bless  her  ! 
And  I'll  make  those  shekels  ;  I  have  a  few  al- 
ready. But  just  after  the  war,  I'll  give  you  my 
word,  sir,  I  was  an  absolute  beggar.  I  borrowed 
money,  and  went  to  Mexico  —  well,  that  is  a 
story." 

We  had  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  by  this, 
and  half-way  down  the  other  side  I  saw  an  oasis 
in  the  red  fields  and  a  glimpse  of  a  white  house. 
A  square  white  house  it  proved  to  be,  with  deep 
piazzas,  and  a  long  wing  running  back,  and  an 
old  garden  in  front,  with  cedar-trees  and  flags, 
and  woodbine  on  trellises  ;  there  were  some  oak- 
trees  and  locust-trees,  all  bare  of  leaves  ;  and  the 
fence  and  gate  were  on  their  last  legs.  I  had 
seen  innumerable  places  like  it  in  the  inland 
South,  felt  familiar  with  the  gullied  gravel-walk 
and  the  "  corn-shucks  "  door-mat,  even  with  the 
red  clay  footmarks  that  extended  into  the  hall, 
and  felt  that  I  knew  quite  well  the  slim,  fair- 
haired  girl  who  greeted  us  with  "  How  are  you,  A 
Pappy  darling  ?"  Then  she  stopped,  looking  at 
me  frankly  from  a  pair  of  handsome  brown  eyes. 

"  A  friend  of  my  youth,  Agnes,  my  dear  ;    a 

Willoughby    of    Chilhowie,    where   my   happiest 

holidays  were  spent.     Kemper  Willoughby,  his 

father,  was  my  boyhood  friend,  and  this  after- 

95 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

noon  I  found  him  stranded  in  Booker  City.  I 
knew  him  by  his  eyes — good  eyes.  Shake  hands  ; 
both  hands,  if  you  like.  If  he  is  true  to  his  blood, 
you'll  never  find  an  honester  gentleman." 

So  we  shook  hands,  smiling  the  while,  and  I 
was  glad  of  my  blood  when  I  looked  in  her  eyes, 
and  hated,  without  reason,  my  good  chief  in  far- 
away New  York. 

A  Willoughby  of  Chilhowie  —  poor  old  Chil- 
howie,  lost  in  the  war,  and  now  great  phosphate- 
works.  The  old  name  had  a  goodly  sound  to  it, 
and  the  brown  eyes  took  a  reverent  expression 
almost.  Evidently  she  had  heard  stories  of  the 
old  place  and  people.  The  rooms  were  carpetless 
— desolate  expanses  rather — but  the  fires  were 
grand,  and  the  few  homely  chairs  were  most 
comfortable.  After  a  while  we  had  a  good  coun- 
try supper,  then  Agnes  brought  some  tumblers 
and  sugar,  and  Jupiter  appeared  with  a  kettle, 
that  soon  was  singing  on  the  fire,  and  the  gen- 
eral hopped  over  to  a  cupboard  in  the  wall  and 
brought  out  a  black  bottle.  My  case  was  full  of 
cigars,  but  the  general  preferred  his  pipe. 

"  I  got  that  pipe  in  Mexico,"  he  said — "  a  long 
story." 

"  A  disgraceful  story,  Pappy,"  his  daughter 
added,  bringing  her  work-basket  from  a  far  table 
— "  a  story  that  will  shock  Mr.  Willoughby."  She 
was  seated  now,  with  the  fire-light  playing  on  her 
delicate  features  and  fair  hair,  and  as  her  little 
hands  filled  the  battered  old  pipe,  she  looked  up 
lovingly  at  the  old  man.  "You  must  give  Mr. 
96 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

Willoughby  your  pedigree  before  you  tell  that 
story." 

"  Oh,  confound  the  pedigree !  Willoughby  is 
a  gentleman,  therefore  he  knows  one  under  any 
disguise.  Will  you  *  have  sugar  in  yourn,'  my 
dear  boy,  and  the  story  of  the  pipe,  or  rather  of 
the  time  when  I  got  the  pipe  ?  It  is  the  joy  of 
my  life — that  time  ;  it  was  life  !  And  that  old 
pipe  was  the  beginning  of  the  first  comfort  I  had 
after  the  war.  I  had  fought  for  four  years  in  the 
cavalry,  part  of  the  time  with  Forrest.  We  were 
not  what  you  would  call  a  godly  set,  Agnes  ; 
but  good  fellows,  who  would  die,  or  worse,  would 
come  near  to  lying,  for  a  friend — brave  fellows  : 
God  bless  every  man  of  them  !  We  were  a  reck- 
less set,  and  death  meant  nothing  to  us ;  but  we 
lived,  ye  gods !  Life  since  has  seemed  a  faded 
rag.  Well,  I  lost  my  leg  first.  I  had  a  hand-to- 
hand  scuffle  for  it,  and  I  will  not  say  how  many 
I  sent  to  their  long  homes — it  hurts  Agnes — but 
— well,  my  leg  went ;  and  not  a  year  after,  my 
arm.  I  killed  the  rascal  who  shot  me  in  the  arm. 
Then  came  the  surrender  " — his  voice  losing  its 
cheery  ring — "  and  I  was  fit  to  murder  right  and 
left.  I  could  not  stand  it,  or  I  thought  I  could 
not,  and  trundled  off  to  Mexico.  Beautiful  coun- 
try, my  dear  fellow,  lovely,  but  the  lowest  down 
nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth  to  call  themselves 
Christians,  not  morals  enough  in  the  whole  nation 
to  satisfy  one  respectable  old-time  darky.  I  could 
not  stand  it,  and  determined  to  come  home,  no 
matter  what  was  the  state  of  the  country.  But 
G  97 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

how  to  get  here.  I  had  the  whole  kingdom  of 
Texas  to  cross,  and  no  money  and  no  railways, 
and  only  half  rations  in  the  way  of  legs.  I  worked 
my  way  to  the  Rio  Grande  on  a  broken-down  old 
mustang.  About  ten  miles  from  the  river  I  came 
to  a  Mexican  jacal,  and  hesitated  about  going  in, 
they  are  such  treacherous  villains.  But  I  was 
hungry,  and  pausing  outside  the  door  I  heard  a 
groan.  Somebody  in  distress,  I  thought,  and, 
cocking  my  pistol,  I  pushed  my  way  in.  An 
Englishman  lay  there  ;  he  had  passed  me  two 
days  before,  travelling  across  country  with  a 
party  of  Mexicans,  but  I  had  caught  him  up 
again,  and  at  the  last  gasp.  The  place  was  empty, 
save  for  him,  and  a  pot  of  tomalis  steaming  near 
the  fire.  I  looked  at  the  Englishman  first,  but  he 
was  dead.  I  had  heard  his  last  groan  probably, 
and  his  murderers  had  been  run  off  by  my  ap- 
proach. His  pockets  were  rifled  of  everything 
save  this  pipe  —  a  good  pipe  in  its  day;  meer- 
schaum, you  see,  and  had  a  fancy  stem  ;  but  I 
prefer  a  joint  or  two  of  cane.  I  was  glad  of  the 
tomalis  ;  but  I  did  not  think  it  safe  to  linger,  as 
I  did  not  know  the  number  of  the  Mexicans.  My 
clothes  and  shoe  were  too  ragged,  however,  to 
leave  a  dead  man  as  well  clothed  as  that  English- 
man was,  so  I  helped  myself  to  a  part  of  his  ward- 
robe. I  had  not  been  so  well  dressed  in  years, 
and  I  laughed  a  little  at  myself.  '  You  look 
as  nice  as  a  preacher/  I  said.  Then  folding  up 
my  old  clothes,  I  left  them  near  the  dead  man, 
and  taking  some  extra  tomalis,  I  left  the  house. 
98 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

'  As  nice  as  a  preacher/  the  words  came  to  me 
again  :  it  had  been  a  phrase  in  the  army  when  a 
fellow  was  specially  well  dressed.  '  As  nice  as  a 
preacher?'  Why  not?  Who  had  a  better  time 
than  preachers  ?  Why  not  be  a  preacher  ?  I 
could  not  help  chuckling  a  little  at  the  thought. 
Why  not  be  a  preacher  for  the  time  ?  And  visions 
of  fried  chicken  and  hot  biscuit  came  over  my 
mind,  and  fiery  steeds  furnished  by  adoring  flocks 
— why  not  ?  I  laughed  out  loud  as  I  jogged  on 
in  the  darkness.  A  preacher?  What  kind? 
What  kind?  Out  on  the  border  that  did  not 
matter.  As  far  as  my  experience  in  that  coun- 
try went,  all  one  had  to  do  was  to  swear  one 
had  had  a  call;  then  preach  and  eat.  That  "7 
was  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  you  see.  So  I 
did  not  come  to  any  decision,  but  left  it  all  to 
chance. 

"  I  was  so  much  entertained  by  my  thoughts 
that  I  was  surprised  when  I  found  myself  at  the 
river.  It  was  day-dawn,  and,  as  luck  would  have 
it,  I  found  some  Mexicans  with  a  boat  just  where 
I  reached  the  bank.  I  seemed  to  strike  terror 
into  most  of  the  party,  and  I  shrewdly  suspected 
that  it  was  the  Englishman's  clothes  that  did  it ; 
most  probably  they  had  been  among  his  murder- 
ers. Some  ran  away,  but  two  remained,  and 
agreed  to  put  me  across.  Of  course  they  thought 
I  had  money,  but  I  kept  my  pistol  lined  on  them, 
and  when  we  reached  the  other  bank,  my  pay  was 
to  jump  ashore,  and  tell  them  in  their  own  lan- 
guage that  I  was  to  meet  a  party  of  Americans 

99 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

there,  and  that  they  had  better  skip  with  my 
blessing  and  the  old  mustang.  They  did. 

"I  shall  never  forget  my  first  day  as  a  preacher. 
I  thought  of  the  character  so  much  that  at  last 
I  began  to  imagine  myself  one.  I  arranged  ser- 
mons with  the  utmost  facility,  and  all  that  I  had 
ever  learned  of  catechism  and  hymns  and  prayers 
came  back  to  me.  The  day  passed  swiftly  enough, 
although  hopping  along  on  crutches  was  such 
weary  work  that  I  began  to  think  longingly  of 
even  my  old  mustang. 

"About  sundown  I  reached  a  settlement  —  a 
cattle  ranch — but  evidently  not  of  the  highest 
character.  Yes,  they  would  take  me  in.  The 
woman  of  the  house  had  a  pathetic  face,  and 
looked  at  me  searchingly,  almost  suspiciously. 

" '  I  am  a  man  of  peace/  I  said,  in  answer  to 
her  look,  '  and  I  have  lost  my  way.' 

"'You  look  like  a  preacher/  one  of  the  men 
said. 

"  I  bowed  my  head. 

" '  I  thought  as  much/  he  went  on,  turning  to 
the  woman,  whose  face  had  brightened  up. 

"  '  I  'ain't  seen  a  preacher  in  five  years/  she 
said.  *  Ain't  you  hungry  ?' 

" '  I  am,  indeed,  my  sister/  I  said  ;  '  as  hungry 
as  your  spirit  must  be.' 

"'Now  you're  shoutin'!'  the  man  cried,  slap- 
ping his  leg.  'That's  the  way  to  talk  it.  I've 
heard  'em  a  hund'ed  times  ;  an'  mammy  would 
always  come  to  me  an'  say,  sof'ly,  "  Go  kill  fo' 
chickens,  Billy."  I'd  know  that  talk  anywhere. 


AN    EX-BRIGAT>IER 

Golly!  go  kill  something,  'Liza  —  a  horse — the 
baby — anything  an  call  in  all  the  fellers  ;  bound 
to  have  somethin'  to  eat.  Gosh  !  your  stomach 
thinks  your  throat's  cut,  don't  it,  mister  ?' 

"  I  was  wild  to  laugh,  by  gad,  sir !  the  rascal 
hit  the  nail  so  squarely  on  the  head  ;  but  I  an- 
swered quietly  enough,  'I  would  like  a  little  food,' 
adding,  meekly,  *  if  you  have  anything  to  spare.' 

"  The  man  went  out  roaring  with  laughter,  and 
the  woman  came  close  to  me. 

"  '  Did  you  ever  marry  anybody  ?'  she  asked. 

"  It  gave  me  a  sort  of  chill  for  a  minute. 

"'  No/  I  answered  ;  *I  am  not  married.' 

"  *  That  ain't  what  I  mean,'  she  said.  *  Me  an* 
Billy  have  changed  rings,  an'  promised  befo'  the 
boys,  an'  mean  it,  too ;  but  we  ain't  had  no  min- 
ister nor  no  magistrate,  an'  somehow  I'd  ruther 
have  some  words  said.  It's  been  three  years  gone 
now  sence  we  changed  rings.' 

"  *  And  you  wish  me  to  say  a  few  words  ?'  I 
asked,  my  compunctions  fading  as  the  woman's 
story  went  on. 

"  *  Yes,  if  Billy's  willin',  but  he  don't  like  preach- 
ers much.  He  don't  believe  in  'em  ;  but  I  do. 
I'll  ask  him,'  and  she  went  out. 

"  This  was  a  position  I  had  not  counted  on,  for 
the  official  acts  of  the  clergy  had  not  occurred  to 
me,  and  for  a  few  moments  I  wished  myself  well 
out  of  the  dilemma  ;  but  I  must  go  on  now,  for 
to  show  these  men  that  I  was  deceiving  them 
might  mean  death.  So  while  I  waited  I  trumped 
up,  or  tried  to  trump  up,  the  Episcopal  marriage 


^,EX-BRIGADIER 

service  ;  but  something  else  would  come  instead, 
and  looking  into  the  matter  afterwards,  I  dis- 
covered it  to  be  the  catechism  ;  but  then  I  knew 
only  that  it  would  not  serve  my  purposes,  and  I 
was  still  at  sea  when  the  woman  returned. 

"  This  time  she  was  followed  by  several  men, 
among  them  *  Billy/ 

'  '  Come  in,  boys/  he  cried,  '  we're  goin'  to 
have  a  weddin',  me  an'  'Liza,  an'  that  means  a 
supper;  don't  it,  'Liza?  An'  to-morrer  we'll 
have  to  loan  Brother —  What's  your  name,  mis- 
ter?' 

" '  Stiggins,'  I  answered,  with  a  back  glance  at 
Mr.  Weller. 

'"  Stiggins,'  Billy  repeated.  'We'll  have  to 
loan  Brother  Stiggins  a  horse.  I  tell  you,  boys, 
it's  a  good  thing  we've  got  somethin'  to  drink  to- 
night, an'  me  an'  'Liza  '11  change  rings  again.' 

"It  was  a  trying  moment.  To  save  my  life  I 
could  not  remember  anything  to  begin  with,  and 
as  the  couple  took  their  places  in  front  of  me  I 
felt  puzzled  to  death  ;  but  I  could  not  fail,  and  I 
made  a  mad  dash. 

"  '  What  is  your  name  ?'  I  asked,  solemnly. 

"'Billy  Sprowle,'  was  answered,  promptly. 

"  '  What  is  your  name  ?' — to  the  woman. 

" '  'Liza  Dobbs.' 

"  4  Who  gave  you  that  name  ?'  was  the  thing 
that  seemed  to  come  next,  somehow,  but  I  real- 
ized at  once  that  it  would  not  do,  so  determined 
on  a  common -sense  question,  and  asked:  'Are 
you  both  of  one  mind  in  this  matter  ?  Answer 

102 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

as  you  shall  answer  at  the  last  great  day  !'  and  I 
let  my  voice  fall  into  profound  depths. 

"  *  Yes,'  came  from  the  couple  ;  and  from  the 
subdued  expression  of  the  company  I  saw  that 
my  voice  had  impressed  them.  This  encouraged 
me,  and  I  made  another  grab  among  my  memo- 
ries. 

"  '  William,  will  you  have  this  woman  to  be  thy 
wedded  wife,  to  have  and  to  hold  until  death  us 
do  part  ?'  And  the  words  tumbled  out  so  glibly, 
once  I  got  started,  that  I  left  the  'us'  unchanged, 
and  recklessly  plighted  my  troth  along  with  them. 
But  they  did  not  notice  this,  and  Billy's  '  Yes, 
sir/  came  like  a  shot.  *  Eliza,  will  you  have  this 
man  to  be  thy  wedded  husband,  to  have  and  to 
hold  until  death  us  do  part  ?'  I  said  once  more. 

"'Yes.' 

" '  Change  rings,'  I  went  on,  '  and  both  of  you 
say,  "  With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,  from  this  day 
forth  for  evermore."  '  They  obeyed,  Billy  look- 
ing meeker  and  meeker  as  the  service  went  on  ; 
then  joining  their  hands,  I  looked  at  the  company 
sternly,  saying,  '  I  pronounce  William  and  Eliza 
Sprowle  to  be  man  and  wife.' 

"  By  this  time  lots  more  of  the  service  had 
come  to  me,  but  somehow  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  say  it ;  it  seemed  to  stick  in  my  throat. 
But  what  I  had  said  had  made  an  immense  im- 
pression. Every  man  there  looked  at  me  with 
something  of  awe  in  his  eyes,  and  I  heard  one 
whisper,  'A  rale  sho  -  'nuff  preacher';  and  the 
answer,  '  You  bet  ;  he  crawls  me/ 
103 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

"  The  ceremony  over,  I  sat  down  by  the  fire  to 
wait  for  further  developments,  and  the  men  stood 
about  awkwardly.  By  this  time,  however,  I  felt 
quite  in  character,  and  said,  in  a  mild  tone, '  Have 
you  much  of  a  settlement  here  ?' 

"  *  Not  much,'  the  oldest  man  of  the  group  an- 
swered, *  an'  the  nighest  neighbors  is  ten  miles 
off.  It's  a  right  lonesome  country.' 

"  '  Yes,'  I  answered,  *  but  good  grass.' 

"  '  That's  so,  an'  free.  Billy  Sprowle  has  made 
a  right  good  thing  of  comin'  out  here,  him  an* 
these  boys  ;  I  'ain't  been  here  long.' 

" '  Do  the  Mexicans  trouble  you  much  ?'  I  went 
on. 

" '  Not  as  much  as  they'd  like  to.'  Then  with 
an  effort,  '  Do  you  think  killin'  a  Mexican  is  any 
harm  ?' 

"  '  No,'  I  answered,  promptly,  then  clearing  my 
throat  slowly — '  no,  not  if  they  molest  your  prop- 
erty.' 

"  The  man  passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  look- 
ing at  me  curiously,  while  I  gazed  sadly  into  the 
fire.  After  a  moment's  reflective  scanning  of  me 
he  drew  nearer,  and,  putting  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  stood  looking  down  on  me. 

" '  You've  got  common-sense,  mister,'  he  said, 
'  if  you  are  a  preacher,  an'  you  answered  mighty 
lively  at  first  'bout  killin'  Mexicans  ;  you  know 
they  oughter  be  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  earth  ?' 

"  I  gave  him  look  for  look.  '  My  brother,'  I 
said,  '  I  fought  for  four  years  in  the  war,  and,  as 
you  see,  half  of  me  is  in  the  grave.  I  don't  stand 
104 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

back  on  killing  or  on  being  killed  when  it  is 
necessary.  And  I  like  hunting  too/  I  went  on, 
'  but  I  don't  like  to  hunt  buzzards/ 

" '  Shake  !'  he  cried,  holding  out  his  hand  ; 
'  that's  good  'bout  buzzards  ;  Mexicans  an*  buz- 
zards is  one.  Sakes-er-mussy  !' — turning  to  the 
rest — 'that's  sense,  boys,  preacher  or  no  preacher.' 

"They  all  drew  up  after  this,  and  sat  down 
near  the  fire  :  they  had  fought,  too,  and  war 
stories  were  plenty,  and  before  supper  was  over 
we  were  the  firmest  friends. 

"  Next  morning,  however,  after  the  night's  re- 
flection, Billy  came  to  me,  confidentially. 

"  *  Are  you  a  sho-'nuff  preacher  ?'  he  said  ;  *  or 
did  you  jest  put  it  up  on  the  old  girl  ?  It  won't 
make  no  diffrunce  to  us  boys,  you  know,  an' 
'Liza's  done  eased  off  'bout  bein'  married,  an*  we 
won't  make  her  onressless  by  tellin'  her  no  better 
— but  are  you  a  preacher  ?' 

" '  Why  not  ?'  I  asked,  drawing  myself  up. 
'What  have  I  done  that  a  preacher  should  not 
do?' 

"  *  Oh,  nothin' — nothin' !'  rather  hurriedly ; '  only 
you've  got  so  much  horse  -  sense,  an'  preachers, 
you  know — ' 

" '  My  brother/  I  said,  gravely,  and  I  laid  my 
hand  on  his  shoulder  in  a  way  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  an  archbishop,  *  you  don't  under- 
stand ;  I  got  my  sense  before  I  was  called  to  be 
a  preacher  ;  I  was  a  man  first,  and  then  a  preacher. 
Do  you  see  ?' 

" '  You  bet ;  an'  you'll  always  be  a  man  ?' 
105 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

"'  Always.' 

"  'Thet's  good,'  heartily.  '  I'd  like  to  hear  you 
preach.' 

"  Well,  those  fellows  could  not  do  enough  for 
me ;  they  lent  me  a  horse  that  was  to  be  left  at 
the  next  town  ;  they  rode  a  long  way  with  me, 
and  Billy  gave  me  a  Mexican  dollar  as  a  marriage 
fee.  But  poor  'Liza,  her  gratitude  was  pathetic, 
and  she  brought  her  little  child  for  me  to  bless. 
That  got  me,  rather,  but  I  gave  him  the  best  I 
had  ;  it  was  the  last  blessing  my  dear  old  mother 
gave  me  ;  *  The  Lord  bless  and  keep  you,  my  boy, 
and  bring  you  home  at  last,'  she  had  said.  I  gave 
it  to  the  little  fellow,  and  the  mother  cried.  And 
I  did  not  feel  mean  a  bit  for  deceiving  them,  for 
I  had  done  good.  I  had  made  that  woman  hap- 
py, and  had  raised  the  clergy  in  the  estimation 
of  these  men.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  felt  my- 
self a  missionary. 

"About  sundown  I  reached  a  little  town,  a  very 
small  affair,  and  stopped  at  the  largest  house  I 
could  find,  and  the  hardest-looking  case  I  had 
ever  seen  came  to  the  door.  I  Basked  if  I  could 
stop  there  ;  he  said  he  would  see,  and  went  back 
into  the  house.  Then  a  woman  came  —  harder- 
looking  than  the  man,  if  that  were  possible.  I 
told  her  I  was  a  man  of  peace,  and  wanted  to 
spend  the  night ;  that  I  made  a  point  of  going 
to  the  houses  of  the  best  people  in  a  town,  be- 
cause they  would  have  the  most  influence,  and 
could  help  me  in  my  work.  That  woman's  face 
was  like  a  flint  when  I  began,  but  before  the 
1 06 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

end  of  my  speech  the  whole  expression  had 
changed. 

"  *  I  ain't  no  Tiscopal,'  she  said,  the  defiance 
that  had  left  her  face  still  lingering  in  her  voice. 

"  *  Of  course  not,'  I  answered,  glibly.  '  I  take 
you  to  be  a  Wash-foot  Baptist.' 

"  'How'd  you  know  that?'  she  cried. 

"  '  There's  a  look  in  your  face,'  I  said. 

"  *  My  soul  an'  body  !  Come  in,'  and  she  flung 
the  door  wide.  She  put  me  in  a  very  decent 
room,  and  presently  I  heard  wild  shouting  and 
a  cannonade  of  sticks  and  stones.  As  I  had  dis- 
trusted both  the  man  and  the  woman,  I  was 
startled  for  a  second,  but  the  screech  of  a  chick- 
en restored  my  equilibrium.  *  Fried  chicken  for 
the  preacher,'  I  said  to  myself,  and  determined 
that  I  must  become  accustomed  to  that  side  of 
the  ministerial  life — and  a  very  good  side  too. 
In  a  marvellously  short  time  I  was  called  to 
supper. 

"  *  I  s'pose  you  don't  mind  havin'  a  bate,'  the 
woman  said  ;  '  so  I  jest  killed  a  chicken,  and 
knocked  up  a  few  biscuit.' 

"I  did  have  a  little  feeling  that  the  chicken 
was  scarcely  dead,  and  that  the  biscuit  had  rather 
a  jaundiced  look  ;  but  I  had  been  intimate  with 
starvation  too  long  to  be  fastidious,  and  I  ate 
with  a  will ;  and  as  I  remember  it  now,  the  coffee 
was  not  bad. 

"  *  Is  you  goin'  to  have  a  meetin'  ?'  was  the 
woman's  first  question  as  I  took  my  seat  at  table. 
'  I  'member  you  said  somethin'  'bout  your  work, 
107 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

an'  we  'ain't  had  nothin'  but  Tiscopal  religion 
here  for  a  long  time.' 

"  *  And  you  don't  like  it?'  I  parried. 

"  i  No,  I  don't;  there  ain't  no  grit  to  it;  I  want 
my  religion  to  have  some  sperrit  ;  I'd  ruther 
have  a  revival  now  than  money ;  and  the  'Pis- 
copals  jest  keep  right  along  quiet  an'  easy,  an* 
I  'ain't  got  no  mo'  patience  with  'em.  I'm  tired.' 

"  *  Is  there  a  clergyman  here  ?' 

"  '  No  ;  he's  dead.  He  come  for  his  health,  an* 
worked  an'  died  'bout  a  month  ago  ;  we  'ain't  had 
nothin'  sence ;  but  if  you're  a  Baptist  preacher, 
there's  nothin'  henders  why  you  can't  have  a 
meetinV 

" '  If  you  think  so—' 

" '  Yes,  I  do  think  so  :  you  look  like  you  kin 
preach.' 

"  '  Yes,  I  think  I  can.' 

"'  Then  I'll  send  John  out.   John!   I  say,  John!' 

"  The  man  who  had  opened  the  door  for  me 
came  in. 

"  '  I  want  you  to  go  round  this  town,  John,'  she 
began,  *  an'  tell  the  folks  that  Brother —  What's 
your  name  ?' 

"'Stiggins.' 

"  *  That  Brother  Stiggins  will  have  a  meetin' 
to-morrer,  startin'  right  early.' 

"  John  looked  at  me  slowly,  then  said  the  one 
word, 4  Tiscopal  ?' 

"  '  No  !'  and  the  woman  looked  as  amiable  as 
a  sitting  hen.  '  'Ain't  you  got  no  sense,  John  Blye  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  a  'Piscopal  look  like  him?  He 
108 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

looks  like  he's  got  grit.  Go  'long  an'  tell  Brother 
Williams  to  come  over  an'  help  'range  'bout  it ; 
go  'long.' 

"  I  must  confess  I  felt  rather  queer  as  the  com- 
bat thickened  round  me.  After  all,  suppose  I 
could  not  preach  ?  And  I  said,  mildly,  *  Is  Broth- 
er Williams  a  good  preacher  ?' 

"'No,  he  ain't' — frankly;  'but  he's  a  mighty 
good  prayer.  I've  heard  him  pray  right  along 
for  a  hour,  an'  it  never  seemed  like  he  drawed  a 
breath.  Yes,  he's  a  mighty  upliftin'  prayer  ;  he'll 
help  you,  don't  you  fret.  Jest  you  preach,  an' 
hit  hard  too,  an'  Brother  Williams  he'll  raise  all 
the  hymns  an'  do  the  prayin' ;  an'  he  does  line 
out  hymns  beautiful.' 

"  This  made  me  more  comfortable,  and  it  was 
easy  enough  to  arrange  matters  with  Brother 
Williams,  a  small,  red-headed  man — a  druggist — 
with  a  long  red  nose  that  he  used  as  a  speaking- 
trumpet.  Very  soon  he  and  Sister  Blye  had  ar- 
ranged all  the  details  ;  even  the  hymns  were 
chosen,  and  nine  o'clock  the  hour  fixed  on.  I 
was  awfully  tired ;  but  I  chose  my  text,  and 
dreamed  out  my  sermon,  for  by  morning  the 
whole  thing  was  in  my  mind — a  grand  thing, 
with  enough  fire  and  brimstone  in  it  to  destroy 
the  universe.  '  Where  the  worm  dieth  not,  and 
the  fire  is  not  quenched' — that  was  my  text.  I 
tell  you,  Willoughby,  I  have  often  thought  that 
I  missed  my  vocation  in  not  being  a  preacher. 
If  you  could  hear  me  once,  I  believe  you  would 
be  converted  yourself.  By  Jove,  sir  !  all  the 
109 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

town  was  there  the  next  morning,  in  a  big 
place  like  a  barn,  which  all  creeds  used  in  com- 
mon. Brother  Williams  was  there,  and  his  nose 
looked  longer  and  redder  than  before. 

"  We  started  them  off  with  a  hymn  ;  then 
Brother  Williams  prayed  :  such  a  prayer  !  It 
was  ridiculous,  sir  !  I  was  dying  to  laugh.  If 
you  could  have  heard  his  instructions  to  the 
Almighty,  and  his  fault-finding  too  :  it  was  aw- 
ful. But  Sister  Blye  —  the  way  in  which  she 
groaned  and  grunted  over  Brother  Williams's 
presentation  of  the  shortcomings  of  the  Lord 
was  edifying  in  the  extreme.  Then  we  had  an- 
other hymn — a  regular  dynamite  fuse  ;  but  no- 
body showed  any  signs  of  religion  except  Sister 
Blye.  Then  I  began.  I  began  quietly,  but  in 
the  deepest  voice  I  could  muster.  First,  I  gave 
a  picture  of  heaven,  quoting  Milton  copiously  ; 
but  my  audience  was  quiet  under  that,  and  I 
realized  that  they  were  in  a  coolly  critical  frame 
of  mind.  Further,  I  realized  that  /  had  no  idea 
of  heaven,  or  eternal  bliss,  or  anything  eternal 
for  that  matter.  I  could  not  conceive  of  heaven- 
ly bliss,  for  the  happiest  moments  of  my  life  had 
been  passed  in  battle.  I  tell  you  there's  nothing 
like  the  rush  and  madness  of  a  charge,  and  you 
know  that  is  no  vision  of  heaven.  I  think  I  failed 
in  my  description  of  heaven  ;  so,  according  to 
my  plan,  I  came  down  to  this  life.  ( I  knew  that 
through  and  through,  and  I  flayed  humanity  alive 
and  rubbed  salt  in.  Then  they  began  to  prick 
up  their  ears,  and  Sister  Blye  looked  uneasy.  I 
no 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

liked  to  see  it,  and  a  determination  came  over 
me  to  do  a  little  good,  if  possible.  And  I  believe 
I  did.  I  gave  them  the  devil  for  a  good  half-hour, 
straight  from  the  shoulder.  Then  I  dropped 
down  to  hell,  and  then  I  made  the  fur  fly  !  I 
knew  sin  and  remorse  ;"  and  the  general's  face 
grew  grave,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  daughter's 
shoulder.  "  Yes^  I  Jknew  hell  better  than  jieaven  ; 
it  came  easy,  and  I  drew  it  strong.  In  twenty 
minutes  that  place  was  like  Bedlam.  I  have 
never  heard  or  seen  anything  like  it,  and  never 
want  to  again.  Such  howls  and  screams  and 
shouting  !  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  exactly, 
for  nobody  could  hear  me,  so  I  stopped  and  sat 
down.  Well,  sir,  little  Williams,  who  had  been 
lying  flat  on  the  floor,  howling,  hopped  up  as 
spry  as  a  cricket,  and  lined  out  a  hymn.  It  was 
the  best  thing  he  could  have  done  ;  it  served  as 
a  vent  for  the  excitement,  and  they  sang  with  a 
will.  Then  he  prayed,  and  exhorted  people  to 
come  up  and  be  prayed  for  ;  in  fact,  he  got  up  a 
first-class  revival  on  top  of  my  sermon  ;  then  he 
took  up  a  collection,  to  pay  my  expenses,  he  said. 
I  don't  know  how  much  was  given  him,  but  I  think 
he  and  Sister  Blye  got  a  very  good  return  for 
their  labors  ;  they  gave  me  five  dollars.  I  re- 
fused to  preach  any  more  that  day,  and  told 
them  I  must  go  on.  Well,  sir,  people  followed 
me  to  the  next  town — followed  to  hear  me  preach 
again,  they  said.  There  was  a  real  Baptist  preach- 
er there,  a  very  good  fellow,  who  kept  a  shoe  shop. 
He  was  delighted  with  the  thought  of  a  revival ; 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

and  he  and  Sister  Blye  and  little  Williams  ar- 
ranged the  programme.  I  had  caught  on  to  their 
methods  by  this  time,  and  determined  to  take  up 
my  own  collections.  I  did  the  work,  and  was  de- 
termined to  get  my  pay.  We  were  in  that  town 
three  days,  and  every  one  of  them  field-days. 
You  never  saw  the  like  ;  such  a  raging,  tearing 
time  I  have  never  conceived  of.  But  the  funny 
part  was  that  when  the  collecting  time  came, 
and  I  started  out  on  my  own  hook,  Sister  Blye 
and  Williams  and  the  other  preacher  all  dashed 
after  me  full  tilt,  and  it  was  simply  a  race  ;  but 
many  refused  to  give  to  any  one  but  me,  which 
made  me  have  fewer  compunctions  about  taking 
the  money,  for  it  showed  me  that  they  under- 
stood each  other. 

"  By  Jove,  sir,  at  the  end  of  three  days  every- 
body wanted  to  be  baptized,  and  I  nearly  ex- 
ploded when  their  own  preacher  told  them  that 
there  was  not  enough  water  anywhere  short  of 
the  Gulf  to  wash  away  their  sins,  but  that  he 
would  do  the  best  he  could  for  them  in  the  water- 
hole  outside  the  town. 

"  I  did  not  take  any  hand  in  that  :  the  official 
acts  I  did  not  touch,  nor  did  I  ever  pray  in  pub- 
lic ;  but  I  did  not  see  any  harm  in  telling  them 
their  sins,  and  in  making  them  wish  they  had 
never  been  born  because  of  the  fright  I  put  them 
in.  It  was  pitiful.  But  I  did  good  ;  I  know  I 
did  good  ;  and  I  made  money.  By  this  time  I 
had  learned  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade,  and  my 
brother  preacher  proposed  that  we  should  agree 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

to  work  Texas  for  three  months,  I  doing  the 
preaching,  and  he  doing  everything  else  ;  that 
we  should  dismiss  Sister  Blye  and  Williams  im- 
mediately, and  divide  the  proceeds  into  two  parts 
instead  of  four.  That  fellow — Stallings  was  his 
name — was  something  of  a  wag,  and  he  told  Will- 
iams and  Sister  Blye  that  we  had  entered  into  a 
partnership,  and  did  not  want  them  any  more  ; 
that  we  had  concluded  to  stop  the  circus  business 
and  teach  religion. 

"  It  was  astonishing  how  much  money  we  made 
after  that,  and  how  wonderfully  successful  we 
were.  The  papers  took  us  up  :  *  Stallings  and 
Stiggins,'  and  their  grand  revivals  ;  their  preach- 
ing and  praying  and  singing,  and  the  rest  of  it. 
We  went  from  town  to  town  in  style,  lived  on  the 
fat  of  the  land,  and  had  as  many  horses  as  we 
wanted.  And  I  added  a  postscript  to  my  ser- 
mons that  any  people  who  changed  their  creeds 
under  stress  of  excitement  were  renegades  and 
fools.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Stallings's  face  / 
the  first  time  I  tacked  that  on  ;  but  it  took  like 
wild-fire.  All  the  preachers  in  that  town  came 
to  hear  me,  and  thanked  me  for  my  sermons  ; 
and  after  that  Stallings  and  I  gave  something 
always  to  every  Protestant  church  in  every  town, 
with  always  the  proviso  that  it  was  to  go  to  the 
preacher's  salary — that  much  extra.  Well,  that 
got  out,  and  the  effect  was  miraculous :  money 
flowed  in.  Don't  you  see  that  I  did  good?  Then 
the  scoldings  I  gave  !  By  gad,  sir,  they  should 
have  taken  the  skin  off.  Bless  your  heart,  how  I 
H  113 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

went  for  the  people  for  not  doing  their  duty  by 
the  ministry  !  Why,  Dante's  lowest  round  was 
nothing  to  what  I  promised  them  if  they  did  not 
do  better. 

"  But  the  end  of  it  all  was  wonderful.  We  were 
at  a  little  town  not  far  from  the  Louisiana  line, 
and  I  was  preaching  fire  and  brimstone  for  dear 
life,  when  a  face  in  the  congregation  caught  my 
eye.  It  was  the  saddest  face  I  had  ever  seen  : 
past  middle  age,  with  sunken  cheeks  and  silver 
hair.  But  it  was  the  eyes  that  took  hold  of  me — 
big,  pitiful  brown  eyes  that  looked  hunted  and 
starved. 

"After  I  had  seen  that  face  I  could  not  preach 
anything  but  comfort  and  hope  :  I  could  not  say 
anything  hard  to  that  woman.  When  I  came 
out  she  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

"  '  I  want  to  speak  to  you/  she  said,  and  took 
hold  of  my  arm.  4You  come  from  my  part  of 
the  country — I  know  it  by  your  voice — and  you 
are  a  gentleman,  if  you  are — '  And  she  paused. 

"  '  If  I  am  an  itinerant  preacher/  I  put  in. 

" t  Yes  ;  it  does  seem  strange  to  me/  she  an- 
swered, frankly  ;  i  but  you  are  a  gentleman,  and 
you  come  from  the  South  Atlantic  coast/ 

"  '  Yes/  I  admitted,  beginning  to  feel  thorough- 
ly ashamed  of  my  position  ;  '  and  is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you  ?' 

"  '  I  have  come  to  you  for  help/  she  answered, 
tremulously,  i  because  I  seemed  to  recognize  you 
in  some  way  ;  and  yet  your  name  is  not  a  coast 
name — Stiggins — I  have  never  heard  it/ 
114 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

" '  Outside  of  Pickwick]  I  amended.  *  But  where 
do  you  live  ?  Can  I  go  home  with  you  and  talk 
to  you  ?' 

"  *  Just  around  the  corner :  we  have  one  room. 
Yes,  you  can  come  :  my  daughter  is  there.' 

"  In  five  minutes  we  reached  the  room — a  poor, 
miserable  little  place,  but  absolutely  clean — and 
sitting  there  sewing,  a  young  girl,  not  more  than 
eighteen.  She  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  '  Mamma !'  she  said,  and  I  seemed  to  hear  my 
own  little  sister  speaking,  so  familiar  were  the 
accents. 

u  '  This  is  Mr.  Stiggins,  dear,  the  preacher ;  he 
comes  from  home,  and  will  help  us.'  Then  mo- 
tioning me  to  a  seat,  she  went  on  :  *  My  name  is 
Vernon — one  of  the  South  Carolina  Vernons,  you 
know/ 

"'And  your  maiden  name?'  I  asked,  rising  in 
astonishment. 

" '  Asheburton  ?' 

"  *  Marion  Asheburton  ?' 

"  '  Yes,'  her  eyes  dilating  with  wonder. 

" '  And  a  long  time  ago,  when  I  was  a  little,     j 
boy,  you  were  engaged  to  Jack  Stamper,  and  he 
diedj". 

1  *  Yes — oh  yes !     Who  are  you  ?' 

"'  Willie/  I  said— '  Willie  Stamper,  the  little 
brother:  don't  you  remember?' 

"  '  How,  then,  is  your  name  Stiggins  ?'  said  the 
daughter,  severely.  But  the  mother  asked  no 
questions,  needed  no  proofs  ;  she  simply  fell  on 
my  neck,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

You  see  she  had  gone  back  to  her  first  love,  and 
her  first  sorrow — had  gone  back  to  days  when 
prosperity  and  luxury  were  the  rule.  Poor  thing ! 
poor  thing!  Then  our  stories  came  out — hers 
pitiful  beyond  compare  ;  mine,  that  seemed  to 
grow  more  vulgar  and  disgraceful  as  I  told  it. 
The  telling  of  that  story  was  an  awful  grind  un- 
til the  girl  laughed  —  the  sweetest  laugh  I  had 
ever  heard.  God  bless  her !  They  were  desti- 
tute— these  Vernons — had  moved  to  Texas,  and 
the  father  had  died,  leaving  the  mother  and  child 
to  struggle  alone,  poor  things  !  When  I  met 
them  they  had  not  tasted  food  for  twenty-four 
hours.  I  took  charge  of  them  at  once,  and  sent 
them  over  to  New  Orleans  to  wait  for  me.  I 
had  a  good  deal  of  money  by  that  time,  but  could 
not  break  my  engagement  with  Stallings,  and 
it  lacked  a  month  of  being  out.  But  I  preached 
for  all  I  was  worth  that  last  month,  and  tears 
and  dollars  came  like  rain ;  and  at  the  last  I  had 
literally  to  run  away  from  Stallings.  He  said  we 
would  make  our  fortunes  if  we  stayed  together ; 
but  I  explained  to  him  that  I  was  not  so  anxious 
about  making  money  as  I  was  about  looking  up 
some  heathen  I  knew  across  the  Mississippi.  So 
we  parted,  and  I  left  Texas  with  two  hundred 
dollars  in  my  pocket,  besides  what  I  had  sent 
Mrs.  Vernon. 

"  Well,  we  were  married — the  girl  and  I — and 

Ccame  home  here  to  Alabama,  where  I  have  man- 
aged to  live  ever  since.     But  I  have  never  been 
as  rich  as  I  was  when  I  was  a  preacher,  for  all 
116 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

my  expenses  were  paid,  I  had  horses  to  ride,  I 
lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  and  had  more  clothes 
made  for  me  by  adoring  sisters  than  ever  since. 
It  was  a  wonderful  time.  Agnes  here  thinks  it 
was  disgraceful,  but  she  laughs  sometimes  when 
I  tell  the  old  story,  just  as  her  mother  did.  They 
are  forgotten  now,  those  happy-go-lucky  old 
days,  and  my  little  wife  lived  only  a  year — only 
a  year." 

The  fire  seemed  to  burn  low  as  the  old  gentle- 
man paused,  and  the  girl  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  But  I  have  lived,"  and  he  drew  a  long  sigh. 
"  Yea,  verily,  life  was  worth  living  when  I  first 
set  out ;  and  the  war" — shaking  his  head — "  I 
would  not  take  anything  for  those  years  of  ex- 
citement ;  by  gad,  sir,  that  was  life,  sure  enough  ! 
And  just  after  the  war  it  was  not  so  very  bad ; 
there  was  some  novelty  in  being  poor,  just  at 
first,  before  we  learned  to  strive  and  grind ;  but 
now  the  grind  is  awful — perfectly  awful !  For 
everybody  is  grinding  now,  rich  and  poor,  old 
and  young.  Rich  people  do  not  stop  to  enjoy, 
because  they  want  more,  and  poor  people  cannot 
stop  to  enjoy,  because  they  have  nothing.  We 
have  lost  the  art  of  being  satisfied — an  art  the 
South  used  to  possess  to  a  ruinous  extent.  We 
are  losing  the  art  of  having  fun,  the  art  of  enjoy- 
ing simple  things.  We  are  learning  to  be  ava- 
ricious, for  now  in  the  South  position  is  coming 
to  depend  on  money;  so  all  grind  along  together; 
and  I  hate  it." 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

"  But  when  you  sell  Booker  City,  papa,"  sug- 
gested the  daughter,  with  an  earnest  faith  in 
word  and  look,  "  then  you  will  have  enough  ?" 

The  twinkle  came  back  to  the  general's  eye, 
and  he  tossed  off  the  last  of  his  toddy  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand. 

"  That  is  true,  little  girl — when  I  sell  Booker 
City." 

But  I  did  not  want  to  talk  of  Booker  City,  and 
the  keen  old  fellow  noticed  it,  and  cocking  his 
head  on  one  side,  he  said  • 

"  You  don't  believe  in  Booker  City  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  I  answered ; 
"but  I  believe  in yoii" 

"And  so  you  may,  my  boy" — heartily;  "and  I 
tell  you  Booker  City  has  a  grand  future." 

I  lifted  my  hand.  "  Don't  tell  me,"  I  said, 
"until  I  tell  you."  Then  I  blurted  out  my  story. 
"  Of  course  I  will  resign,"  I  finished,  "  and  they 
may  send  another  man." 

The  general  rubbed  his  chin.  "  Don't  be  rash," 
he  said.  "  Write  your  chief  the  whole  story  ;  let 
him  recall  you ;  let  him  come  out  himself  if  he 
likes.  To  resign  because  I  happen  to  be  a  friend 
of  your  father  is  a  i  befo'-de-wah'  sensitiveness 
which  we  cannot  afford  now.  That  fine  old  sen- 
sitiveness !  It  was  silly  sometimes,  but  exqui- 
site. We  cannot  afford  it  now,  however;  and  by 
the  time  we  can  afford  it  we  will  have  been  made 
so  tough  in  the  grind  for  money  that  we  will 
have  lost  the  cuticle  necessary  to  it.  That  is 
the  reason  it  takes  three  generations  to  make  a 

118 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

gentleman.  For  myself,  I  don't  think  he  can  be 
made  under  five  or  six.  However,  accepting  the 
proposition,  the  first  generation  cannot  afford 
to  be  a  gentleman ;  the  second  generation  might 
be  able  to  afford  it,  but  don't  know  how;  the  third 
generation  can  afford  it,  and  maybe  has  learned 
the  outward  semblance,  and  so  the  saying  has 
come.  But  to  have  all  the  '  ear-marks/  to  have 
the  thing  come  naturally,  to  have  it  so  bred  in 
the  bone  that  a  man  can't  help  being  a  gentle- 
man, and  has  hands  and  feet  and  ears  all  to 
match — that  kind  of  thing  takes  five  or  six  gen- 
erations. And  even  after  six  generations  I  have 
seen  the  'old  Adam'  crop  out  in  broad  thumbs 
or  big  ears. 

"  Now  you  have  all  the  points,  Willoughby, 
but  you  cannot  afford  that  '  befo'-de-wah  sen- 
sitiveness. Don't  resign,  but  tell  your  story,  and 
give  your  honest  impressions  ;  for  the  first  gen- 
eration cannot  afford  even  a  comfortable  lie ;  it 
requires  '  a  hundred  earls '  to  let  a  man  lie  with 
impunity.  Humanity  is  still  too  crude — all  ex- 
cept the  French  and  Africans — to  put  up  with 
a  lie,  except  under  very  extraordinary  circum- 
stances of  success  or  position.  So  after  you  have 
seen  Booker. City,  and  have  heard  all  my  plans, 
then  write;  but  don't  resign  because  you  happen 
to  find  a  friend  in  me,  and  so  may  be  suspected 
of  collusion.  If  you  have  no  idea  of  collusion, 
don't  be  afraid  of  suspicion.  Tell  him  that  I  am 
your  friend  ;  then,  if  he  suspects  you,  he  will  send 
another  fellow  down  ;  but  if  he  has  any  sense  he 
119 


AN    EX-BRIGADIER 

will  not  send  to  supersede  you.  If  he  does,  why 
you  come  over  to  my  party  —  me  and  George 
Washington  Stamper  Booker" — laughing — "  and 
by  gad,  sir,  we'll  work  those  fellows  for  all  they 
are  worth  ;  we'll  never  let  them  rest  until  our 
fortunes  are  made,  and  Booker  City  is  the  Lon- 
don and  Paris  and  New  York  and  Chicago  and 
Rome  and  Athens  and  everything  else  of  the 
South  all  rolled  into  one,  not  to  leave  out  Pitts- 
burgh and  Boston  —  yes,  sir ;  and  we'll  invite 
your  chief  down,  and  we'll  take  him  to  drive  with 
Jupiter  and  the  mule,  and  tell  him  about  those 
palmy  days  in  Texas  over  a  good  hot  toddy,  and 
by  Jove,  sir,  he'll  be  one  of  us  in  twenty  -  four 
hours  !  We'll  make  him  build  a  memorial  for 
Sister  Blye,  and  save  a  corner  lot  for  Stallings. 
Just  let  him  dare  to  supersede  you,  and  so  help 
me  over  the  fence  if  I  am  not  such  a  friend  to 
him  as  will  make  him  wish  he'd  never  been  born. 
I  have  not  forgotten  how  to  preach,  and  I'll 
make  that  old  Dives  think  he's  reached  an  infi- 
nite prairie  on  an  infinite  August  day  and  not  a 
water-hole  in  sight;  but  don't  you  resign." 

I  took  the  general's  advice  ;  but  it  was  a  hard 
letter  to  write,  and  I  am  afraid  it  was  a  little 
stiff.  Nevertheless  the  general  was  right ;  I  was 
not  superseded,  and  in  time  my  chief  did  take  a 
drive  with  Jupiter  and  the  mule,  and  heard  the 
story  of  the  Texas  days  told  as  no  pen  on  earth 
can  write  it. 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 


THERE  is  a  certain  family  likeness  in  all  small 
country  towns  that  is  quite  consistent  with  a 
wide  divergence  in  manners  and  customs,  and 
one  thing  common  to  all  is  a  "leading  citizen.'*  He 
is  generally  a  good  man,  for  after  all  it  is  the 
upright  who  best  weather  the  storm  and  find  per- 
manent haven  in  the  faith  of  their  fellow-men. 

The  town  of  Greenville,  like  all  her  family,  was 
extremely  self-important,  and  when  her  "  leading 
citizen,'5  Mr.  Joshua  Kayley  —  commonly  called 
Squire  Kayley — was  sent  to  Congress,  Greenville 
became  absolutely  sure  of  the  large  place  she 
filled  in  the  public  eye,  and  felt  glad  for  the  rest 
of  the  world  that  a  teacher  should  go  out  from 
such  a  place  as  Greenville.  In  return,  Squire 
Kayley  felt  deeply  grateful  for  the  honor  done 
him  ;  was  proud  of  his  town,  of  his  county,  and 
of  his  State,  and  went  to  his  post  determined  to 
do  all  possible  credit  to  his  native  region. 

As  has  been  intimated,  Squire  Kayley  was  an 
upright  man ;  he  was  also  a  modest  and  an  ob- 
servant man,  honestly  desirous  of  thinking  and 
123 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

doing  right,  and  when  he  reached  Washington 
he  found  much  food  for  thought.  He  did  not 
make  many  remarks  during  his  term  of  office, 
but  in  a  quiet  way  he  made  many  investigations, 
and  arrived  at  some  astonishing  conclusions.  He 
found,  among  other  things,  that  the  West  and 
the  South  were  looked  on  as  being  uncivilized 
because  of  what  in  those  regions  were  called  "dif- 
ficulties," not  to  speak  of  lynchings  and  other 
modes  of  supplementing  the  law. 

He  found  out,  also,  that  in  quieter  regions,  in- 
stead of  "a  word  and  a  blow,"  people  brought 
action  for  "  assault  and  battery,"  and  "  alienating 
affections,"  and  "  breach  of  promise,"  and  the  rest 
of  it — delicate  matters  which  in  his  experience 
had  always  been  settled  by  a  bullet  or  a  caning. 
Not  being  a  blood-thirsty  man,  he  pondered  much 
on  these  things,  and  determined  at  last  that  he 
would  try  the  experiment  of  making  his  native 
town  more  law-abiding.  It  was  a  herculean  task, 
and  he  had  serious  doubts  as  to  his  success,  but 
he  was  determined  to  try,  for  although  Green- 
ville could  not  boast  that  every  man  in  her  grave- 
yard had  died  with  his  boots  on,  she  could  never- 
theless bring  to  mind  a  long  list  of  sons  who  had 
begun  their  march  on  the  "  lonely  road  "  well  shod. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  hotel  piazza  with  a  num- 
ber of  his  constituents  one  afternoon  after  his 
return  home,  and  while  a  negro  handed  about 
glasses  filled  with  a  topaz-colored  mixture,  crush- 
ed ice,  mint,  and  straws,  Squire  Kayley  told  this 
story : 

124 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

"A  man  up  yonder,"  he  began,  "made  some 
remarks  about  another  man,  a  stranger  from 
another  region  of  the  country;  a  few  days  after- 
wards the  man  was  on  the  cars  when  the  stranger 
walked  up  to  him  and,  taking  him  by  the  nose, 
pulled  him  all  the  way  down  the  car." 

"  Gosh !"  exclaimed  one  listener. 

"  Did  you  stay  for  the  funeral  ?"  asked  another. 

"  He  didn't  shoot,"  Squire  Kayley  answered, 
"  he  brought  in  a  charge  of  assault  and  battery, 
and  got  two  thousand  dollars  damages." 

His  audience  groaned. 

"  You  needn't  groan,"  the  Squire  went  on,  with 
a  steadiness  in  his  tone  and  words  such  as  a  man 
puts  into  his  actions  when  he  is  about  to  light 
a  fuse — "  that  fellow  had  a  level  head.  He  had 
followed  so  quick  that  his  nose  wasn't  hurt,  and 
two  thousand  dollars  is  a  lots  better  poultice  for 
a  man's  honor  than  a  fellow-man's  blood." 

A  dead  silence  followed  this  remark,  and  Squire 
Kayley,  tilting  his  chair  back  against  the  wall, 
pulled  gently  at  the  straw  in  his  glass.  After  a 
few  moments  a  young  fellow  sitting  on  the  rail- 
ing of  the  piazza  asked ; 

"An'  you'd  sue  for  damages,  Squire?" 

"  I  ain't  sure,  Nick,"  Squire  Kayley  answered, 
slowly.  "  I  hope  I  won't  be  tried,  but  I  think  the 
fellow  had  a  level  head." 

"An'  two  thousand  dollars  is  a  heap  er  money," 
said  another  young  fellow,  thoughtfully. 

"  'Tain't  so  much  the  money,  Loftus,"  the 
Squire  answered,  "  as  not  shedding  blood. 
125 


SQUIRE   KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

They're  lots  more  peaceable  up  yonder  than  we 
are,  and  they  haven't  got  it  by  killing  each  other, 
either ;  and  they're  lots  richer,  too,  and  a  good 
deal  of  it  has  come  through  being  law-abiding." 

"Dang  my  soul,  if  you  ain't  changed.!"  cried 
an  old  fellow,  jerking  his  rocking-chair  round  so 
as  to  face  Squire  Kayley.  "  I'd  noticed  thet  you'd 
smoothed  your  words  a  heap,  an'  had  cut  your 
hair  short,  an'  shaved  your  face  clean,  but  I  hedn't 
looked  for  no  f u'ther  change,  an'  this  is  too  much 
when  you  say  you'd  let  a  feller  pull  yo'  nose  an* 
be  satisfied  with  two  thousand  dollars." 

"I'd  kt  you  pull  it  for  one,  Uncle  Adam," 
Squire  Kayley  answered,  smiling. 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  but  not  a  hearty 
one,  for  their  leading  citizen  was  announcing 
doctrines  that  would  have  branded  any  other 
townsman  as  a  coward. 

"  There  was  another  man,"  the  Squire  went  on ; 
"  a  fellow  began  to  carry  on  with  his  wife  ;  we'll 
suppose  that  he  did  what  he  could  to  stop  it, 
then,  after  watching  a  while  and  seeing  that 
things  were  hopeless,  he  brought  action  for  alien- 
ating his  wife's  affections,  and  gained  his  suit 
and  five  thousand  dollars." 

"  Damn  it,  man,  you  didn't  think  thet  was 
right  ?"  Uncle  Adam  cried  again,  growing  very 
red  in  the  face,  while  the  other  listeners  looked 
at  the  Squire  pleadingly,  as  if  imploring  him  not 
to  commit  himself  beyond  redemption. 

"  Why  not  ?"  the  Squire  asked,  taking  another 
pull  at  his  straw — "  nothing  could  heal  the  hurt 
126 


SQUIRE   KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

the  woman  had  done  him — and  a  woman  as  far 
gone  as  that  didn't  deserve  to  have  blood  spilled 
for  her — and  to  leave  her  on  the  other  fellow's 
hands,  at  the  same  time  taking  away  his  money, 
seems  to  me  the  most  dismal  punishment  on  the 
face  of  the  earth." 

"But,  Squire,  could  you  have  held  yourself?" 
cried  Nick. 

"  I  ain't  sure,"  the  Squire  answered,  again, 
"  and  I  won't  be  tried,  being  a  bachelor ;  but  that 
fellow  had  a  level  head." 

Loftus  did  not  venture  to  remark  again  on  the 
money,  and  Uncle  Adam  and  the  others  having 
sunk  into  wondering  silence,  the  Squire  went  on  : 

"  There  was  a  fellow  engaged  to  a  girl ;  first 
thing  she  knew  he  was  married  to  another  girl ; 
she  sued  for  breach  of  promise  and  got  her 
money." 

"Fur  God's  sake,  Joshua  Kayley  !"  Uncle  Adam 
pleaded,  for  the  third  time,  and  now  with  a  tone 
of  despair  in  his  voice,  "  you  wouldn't  er  let  yo' 
daughter  do  thet?" 

The  Squire  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said, 
"seeing  I'm  a  bachelor,  I  wouldn't ;  but  I  do  draw 
the  line  there.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  to  a 
man  who  should  ill-treat  my  daughter,  if  I  had 
one — but  she  shouldn't  do  anything ;  all  the  same, 
the  girl  had  a  level  head.  And  I'll  tell  you,"  he 
went  on,  rising  to  his  feet  and  waving  his  glass 
to  emphasize  his  words — "  I'll  tell  you  that  the 
people  up  yonder  have  got  the  right  end  of  the 
stick.  You'll  not  get  peace  nor  honor  by  kill- 
127 


SQUIRE   KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

ing  people,  and  you'll  not  make  money  by  paying 
lawyers  to  defend  you  in  murder  trials — and  we 
don't  gain  credit  nor  bring  capital  to  our  coun- 
try by  riots  and  difficulties  ;  and  they  call  us 
barbarous  and  uncivilized,  they  do,  and  we've 
got  to  change — we've  got  to  become  law-abiding. 
I  love  Greenville,  and  I  love  you  all,  and  you've 
all  got  to  help  me  change  this  town.  God  knows, 
and  you  know,  that  I  ain't  a  coward,  and  if  you 
could  hear  them  talk  about  us  and  our  ways,  and 
read  their  papers  about  us  and  our  doings,  you'd 
try  to  help  me  ;"  and  he  resumed  his  seat. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Uncle  Adam 
brought  his  hand  down  sharply  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair. 

"  It's  no  use  talkin',  Josh,"  he  said,  "  we  ain't 
been  raised  that  way,  an'  we  ain't  a  goin'  to 
change  into  no  pulin'  complainers  to  the  law, 
nor  patch  up  our  dishonor  with  money.  Why, 
Josh,  even  the  niggers  would  scorn  such  talk,  an* 
for  the  land's  sake,  stop  it !" 

There  was  a  chuckle  from  the  doorway,  where 
the  negro  waiter  had  paused  to  listen. 

Squire  Kayley  turned.  "  You  there,  Sam  ?"  he 
said.  "  I'm  glad  of  it,  you  can  help  me,  too  ;  you 
can  go  and  tell  the  niggers  what  I  say,  and  tell 
'em  I'm  right." 

The  negro  bent  double  over  his  waiter  as  if 
with  restrained  mirth.  "Lawd,  Boss,"  he  said, 
"  'tain't  no  use  talkin'  to  niggers  ;  it's  too  easy 
furrum  to  shoot  en  run,  en  dat's  w'at  a  nigger  '11 
do  ev'y  time." 

128 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

"An'  the  whites  '11  shoot  an'  stan'  to  it !"  cried 
Uncle  Adam ;  u  an'  you've  gone  all  wrong,  Josh." 

Squire  Kayley  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  Uncle  Adam,"  he  answered,  "  I'm  right. 
People,  and  'specially  boys,  seem  to  think  that 
there's  some  kind  of  glory  in  defending  what 
they  call  their  honor,  and  half  the  time  it's  bad 
temper  or  bad  liquor.  But  there's  no  glory  in 
a  cold-blooded  lawsuit,  and  if  they  knew  that 
they'd  have  to  go  into  court  and  have  their  lives 
and  their  characters  turned  inside  out,  they'd 
control  themselves  a  little  better." 

A  tall  young  woman,  very  much  overdressed, 
was  seen  coming  down  the  street  on  the  other 
side.  Nick  slipped  off  the  railing  on  to  the  pave- 
ment, and,  stepping  across  quickly,  joined  her. 
The  group  on  the  hotel  piazza  was  silent,  watch- 
ing the  couple, out  of  sight. 

Then  Uncle  Adam  said : 

"  It  beats  me  why  Nick  Tobin's  wife  is  forever 
passin'  this  hotel.  To  my  certain  knowledge 
she's  been  by  three  times  to-day." 

"  Maybe  she  has  business  down-town,"  suggest- 
ed the  Squire. 

"  Loftus  Beesley's  smilin'  like  he  knows,"  was 
another  suggestion. 

Uncle  Adam  nudged  Loftus. 

"  Not  long  ago,"  he  said,  "  we  mighter  thought 
it  was  'cause  Loftus  was  a  settin'  here." 

"  Well,  she's  gone,"  said  Squire  Kayley,  sharp- 
ly ;  "  and  I  can't  see  how  it's  our  business  what 
she's  gone  for." 

i  129 


SQUIRE   KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

Uncle  Adam  looked  at  the  speaker  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  color  mounting  to  his  face. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Joshua  Kayley,"  he  answered, 
"  thet  you're  losin'  yo'  mind.  If  I  choose  to  make 
it  my  business  who  passes  this  hotel,  I'm  goin'  to 
make  it  my  business  ;  an'  if  I  choose  to  say  thet 
Nick  Tobin's  wife  spen's  her  life  gaddin'  roun' 
these  streets,  I'm  goin'  to  say  it ;  an'  I'll  add  thet 
when  Nick's  in  town  she  does  spen'  her  time  on 
the  streets,  an'  when  he's  travelling  or  with  his 
firm,  over  in  the  city,  she  spen's  it  at  home  re- 
ceivin'  the  boys.  An'  fu'thermo'  Loftus  is  one 
o'  them  boys ;  an'  I'll  instruct  you  again — Nick 
suspicions  it,  an'  he  leaves  the  Seelye  boys,  his 
own  cousins,  on  guard*  when  he's  gone,  'cause 
Nick's  got  no  man  to  help  him,  an'  the  girl's  own 
people  can't  do  nothin'  with  her — now,  what  do 
you  say  ?" 

"That  I'm  mighty  sorry  for  Nick,"  Squire 
Kayley  answered,  quietly  ;  "  he's  a  good  fellow, 
a  little  hasty,  but  straight,  and  the  least  his 
friends  can  do  is  not  to  trifle  with  his  wife  behind 
his  back,  nor  make  her  the  subject  of  public  com- 
ments ;  and  I'll  stand  by  Nick,  and  I'll  stand  by 
her  for  his  sake.  We  all  ought  to." 

Loftus  moved  uneasily,  then  joined  Uncle 
Adam,  who  had  risen,  and,  with  a  very  much  dis- 
gusted expression,  stood  looking  down  on  Squire 
Kayley. 

"  I  wish  yo'  new  doctrines  good  luck,  Josh,'1 
the  old  man  said,  sarcastically  ;  "  but  I'm  an  ole 
bottle,  an'  the  preacher  says  new  wine  busts  ole 
130 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

bottles,  an'  I'm  'fraid  o'  bustin'  if  I  takes  in  any 
mo',  an'  then  you'd  bring  a  suit  for  damages,  so 
I'm  goin'." 

Squire  Kayley  laughed. 

"  You  can't  make  me  mad,  Uncle  Adam,"  he 
said,  "and  you  can  say  anything  you  please. 
Some  day  you'll  see  that  I'm  right." 

Of  course  Squire  Kayley's  new  doctrines  were 
the  town's  talk  in  a  few  hours,  and  the  women 
with  one  accord  took  his  part. 

Squire  Kayley  was  right,  they  declared,  was  al- 
ways right,  and  if  he  had  broken  up  that  hotbed 
of  scandal  that  collected  every  afternoon  on  the 
hotel  piazza  he  had  done  a  good  work.  Women 
scarcely  liked  to  pass  the  hotel,  and  although 
Letty  Tobin  deserved  to  be  talked  about  because 
of  her  scandalous  behavior  with  Loftus  Beesley, 
still  they  were  glad  that  the  Squire  had  spoken 
plainly,  even  if  in  so  doing  he  had  taken  Letty's 
part.  Further,  if  he  could  persuade  their  sons 
and  husbands  to  stop  bullying  each  other,  they 
would  look  on  him  as  their  deliverer  from  many 
anxieties  and  evils,  and  they  would  try  to  help 
him. 

The  next  thing  Greenville  knew,  an  action  for 
assault  and  battery  was  brought  by  Sam,  the 
waiter  at  the  hotel,  against  Uncle  Adam  Dozier, 
the  autocrat  of  the  hotel  piazza. 

The  excitement  was  intense. 

Of  course  Sam  had  come  at  once  to  Squire 
Kayley,  and  of  course  Squire  Kayley  could  not 
refuse  the  case.  He  did  his  best  to  persuade 
131 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

Sam  from  it,  for  Uncle  Adam  had  often  before 
whacked  Sam  with  his  walking-stick,  but  though 
perfectly  amiable,  Sam  stood  to  his  point. 

The  town  was  in  a  fume.  Squire  Kayley's 
popularity  wasted  like  snow  under  a  July  sun, 
and  there  were  no  words  capable  of  expressing 
Uncle  Adam's  sensations,  nor  any  reputable  print- 
er who  would  have  put  his  language  into  type. 

The  women,  hitherto  solid  for  Squire  Kayley 
as  the  man  in  town  who  stood  next  to  the  clergy 
in  the  matter  of  uprightness,  were  divided,  for 
though  they  detested  Uncle  Adam  as  an  old  rep- 
robate with  an  unscrupulous  tongue — still,  the 
case  was  a  negro  against  a  white  man,  which 
brought  many  feelings  other  than  justice  into 
full  play. 

However,  through  it  all,  Squire  Kayley  was 
"quiet  and  peaceable  and  full  of  compassion," 
and  he  gained  his  case,  and  Sam  his  money,  and 
Uncle  Adam,  having  exhausted  his  vocabulary, 
took  out  his  vengeance  in  an  ostentatious  and 
belligerent  avoidance  of  the  Squire. 

But  time,  humanity's  one  patent  medicine  that 
really  cures  all,  soothed  Uncle  Adam,  and  as  Sam 
had  discreetly  disappeared,  the  old  man  resumed 
his  position  on  the  hotel  piazza,  where  each  day 
he  used  Squire  Kayley's  new  doctrines  as  a  peg 
on  which  to  hang  an  ever-enlarging  book  of  lam- 
entations over  the  old  times,  and  declared  that 
since  Sam's  victory  "  every  nigger  in  town  was 
tryin'  to  git  licked,  which  would  be  mighty  good 
for  them  but  for  the  money  which  the  Squire  hed 
132 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

attached.  For  everybody  knew  that  a  thrashin' 
was  a  nigger's  bes'  frien',  while  money  was  a  pit- 
fall of  danger" — but  that  "the  nex'  time  he  hit, 
he'd  hit  to  kill,  then  Josh  Kayley  could  have  the 
pleasure  of  puttin'  him  in  the  penitentiary." 
Furthermore  he  said  that  he  hoped  "thet  no 
other  Greenville  man  would  ever  go  to  Washing- 
ton if  it  was  goin'  to  ruin  him  like  it  had  ruined 
Josh.  Josh  had  gone  away  an  ole-time  gen'le- 
man,  but  only  the  omniscient  Almighty  knew 
what  he  had  changed  into  'fore  he  got  back." 
The  occurrence  had  its  effect,  however,  as  object- 
lessons  always  do,  and,  as  the  Squire  observed, 
"  Uncle  Adam  had  ceased  his  gentle  play  with  his 
walking-stick." 

Greenville  resumed  its  deadly  stillness  after 
this,  until  the  first  cold  snap  in  the  autumn  waked 
up  the  young  people  to  a  sense  of  the  beauty  of 
dances  and  candy-pullings,  causing  them  to  drive 
long  distances  to  country  places  or  to  neighbor- 
ing settlements  to  find  a  sufficient  amount  of 
amusement. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Grundy  waked  up,  too,  and  while 
allowing  them  to  have  the  most  unquestioned 
freedom,  the  gossips  kept  a  viciously  strict  ac- 
count of  the  young  people's  fallings  from  grace, 
and  especially  were  their  eyes  fixed  on  Letty 
Tobin,  Nick's  wife. 

That  Letty  was  beautiful  no  one  denied,  and 
her  marriage  to  Nick  Tobin  had  been  an  aston- 
ishment to  all  who  knew  her.  Nick  himself  had 
been  somewhat  surprised,  for  up  to  the  moment 
133 


SQUIRE   KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

of  her  acceptance  she  had  treated  his  loyal  ser- 
vice as  something  of  a  joke,  giving  all  her  favors 
to  other  young  men,  especially  to  Loftus  Beesley, 
who,  for  Greenville,  was  rich. 

Nobody  understood  this  sudden  change  of 
front,  and  all  prophesied  that  the  marriage  would 
never  take  place.  But  it  did,  and  in  his  love  and 
gratitude  Nick  swore  that  if  love  and  devotion 
could  make  Letty  happy  she  should  never  have 
cause  to  repent  her  choice.  And  work  he  did, 
even  Letty's  mother  declaring  that  he  "  spoiled 
the  girl  to  death." 

As  Nick  "travelled"  for  a  firm  in  a  neighbor- 
ing city,  he  could  be  very  little  at  home,  which 
was  declared  to  be  "unfortunate,"  especially  as 
Letty  lived  alone,  declining  even  the  company  of 
her  own  sisters,  who,  doomed  to  the  country, 
would  have  been  very  glad  of  a  change  to  town. 

Nick's  comings  and  goings  were  uncertain  also, 
but  he  came  home  as  often  and  stayed  as  long 
as  possible,  meanwhile  leaving  to  his  cousins,  Ben 
and  Reub  Seelye,  the  care  of  his  wife  and  his  home. 

They  had  been  married  for  a  year  now,  and 
Nick  had  not  yet  entirely  recovered  from  his  sur- 
prise at  his  luck,  for,  besides  being  a  modest  fel- 
low, his  mind  was  as  slow  as  his  temper  was  quick. 
But  when  this  first  cold  snap  came,  and  all  the 
young  people  of  the  town  waked  up  to  the  de- 
lights of  this  weather  that  was  so  ideal  for  mer- 
rymaking, Nick  was  away,  and  Ben  Seelye  found 
himself  very  unhappy  about  his  cousin's  wife  and 
about  the  talk  that  was  so  rife  concerning  her. 
134 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

There  was  nothing  that  he  could  have  proved, 
and  yet  he  knew,  and  every  one  else  knew,  that 
things  were  not  as  they  should  be,  and  that  Lof- 
tus  Beesley  was  the  man. 

One  morning  Ben  walked  into  Squire  Kayley's 
office,  pale,  and  somewhat  breathless. 

"  What's  up  ?"  the  Squire  asked,  at  once,  not 
even  suggesting  that  his  visitor  should  be  seated. 

Ben  held  out  a  telegram.  "  Nick's  coming,"  he 
said,  "  and  Letty's  not  here." 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

"We  all  drove  over  to  Pinehollow  last  night  to 
a  candy-pulling,"  Ben  explained,  "  and  some  of  us 
stayed  over  all  night  at  Colonel  Bolles's  ;  but  this 
morning  when  I  reached  town  I  found  that  Letty 
had  not  come.  She  and  Loftus  left  Bolles's  a 
little  ahead  of  me,  and  took  the  road  home,  so 
that  I  felt  safe ;  but  John  Brewin  says  that  she 
and  Loftus  turned  off  on  the  Valley  Creek  pike, 
and  told  him  to  tell  me  they'd  be  back  by  five 
o'clock — and — and  Nick  is  'most  here  now  !" 

"Well?"  queried  the  Squire. 

"Well,  it'll  be  death  to  somebody,"Ben  answered. 

The  Squire  walked  about  a  little  bit  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  then  paused  to  look  out  of 
the  window. 

"  It  shall  not  come  to  that,"  he  said,  at  last ; 
"  there's  no  harm  in  the  girl's  going  to  a  picnic  ; 
and  if  you'll  meet  Nick  and  tell  him  about  it 
quietly,  it  '11  be  all  right." 

"  If  it  was  any  other  fellow  but  Loftus,"  Ben 
answered. 

i35 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

"  Is  Nick  jealous  of  Loftus  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  Loftus  is  so  careful  when 
Nick's  at  home  that  it  makes  a  fellow  think,  an' 
when  Nick's  away,  not  a  day  passes  but  he  sees 
Letty." 

"And  I've  known  that  girl  since  she  was  a 
child,"  the  Squire  said,  as  if  to  himself,  again 
pausing  to  look  out  of  the  window.  After  a  mo- 
ment he  turned — "  If  she  comes  at  five,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  we  can  smooth  it.  but  a  girl  who  de- 
ceives her  husband  systematically  may  not  come 
home  at  five." 

Ben  groaned. 

The  Squire  sat  down  again,  and  there  was  si- 
lence in  the  little  office  until  the  Squire  roused 
himself  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  go  and  meet  Nick  and 
explain  things  as  lightly  as  you  can,  and  if  she 
does  not  come  at  five  you  bring  Nick  here  ;  I'll 
be  here  late  this  evening."  And  Ben  went  off. 

Five  o'clock  found  Nick  and  Ben  waiting  pa- 
tiently at  Nick's  house ;  at  six  o'clock  Reub 
Seelye  joined  them ;  at  seven,  Nick  was  lying  on 
his  bed,  tied,  with  Ben  seated  beside  him,  while 
Reub  went  for  Squire  Kayley. 

"  He  tried  to  kill  himself,"  Reub  said,  "  an'  we 
had  to  tie  him." 

When  Squire  Kayley  entered  the  room  Nick 
was  attaching  every  oath  he  had  ever  heard  to 
Loftus  Beesley's  name,  and  doing  it  with  a  de- 
liberate, monotonous  carefulness  that  was  almost 
rhythmical  and  truly  awful. 
136 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

"That's  no  good,"  the  Squire  said,  quietly, 
standing  over  him  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
"and  I'm  ashamed  to  see  you  lying  here  tied 
like  a  beast.  Untie  him,  boys." 

Nick  got  up  and  shook  himself. 

"  You've  got  no  right  to  behave  as  if  your  wife 
had  sinned,"  the  Squire  went  on;  "any  accident 
might  have  kept  them ;  if  you  loved  her  you'd 
not  treat  her  with  this  dishonor." 

"  She's  been  two  days,  an'  this  '11  be  two  nights, 
with  Loftus  Beesley  !"  Nick  cried. 

"True;  but  last  night  she  was  with  all  the 
party  at  Colonel  Bolles's,  perfectly  respectable 
and  legitimate,  and  now  she  may  come  in  at 
any  moment  and  give  a  perfectly  clear  account 
of  herself ;  and  even  if  she  does  not  come  un- 
til morning,  she  may  be  stopping  with  some 
friend — " 

Nick  struck  his  hands  together. 

"  Then  she'll  have  to  stop  away  altogether !" 

"  Not  at  all,"  the  Squire  returned ;  "  you  must 
give  her  every  chance  to  clear  herself;  she's 
young,  and  beautiful,  and  fond  of  admiration  and 
gayety,  and  that  kind  of  woman  has  a  thousand 
temptations  that  a  quieter  kind  never  dreams  of. 
She  had  the  choice  of  every  unmarried  man 
in  this  town — "  the  Squire  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  added — "  even  of  your  humble  servant,  and 
out  of  all  she  selected  you — " 

Nick  turned  quickly — "You,  too,  Squire?"  he 
asked. 

The  Squire  nodded.  "  And  I  love  her  enough 
137 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

still,"  he  added,  "  to  insist  that  justice  be  done 
her." 

The  evening  wore  on.  The  town  clock  struck 
nine — then  ten — then  the  Squire  sent  Reub  Seelye 
out  to  the  house  of  Letty's  mother,  to  see  if  she 
was  there. 

It  was  a  long  ride,  and  until  Reub  returned, 
after  midnight,  the  Squire  managed  to  keep  Nick 
quiet,  but  when  a  negative  answer  came  Nick 
was  almost  beside  himself,  and  Squire  Kayley 
had  to  compromise,  giving  up  the  point  that  Nick 
must  let  his  wife  come  home,  and  advising,  in- 
stead, that  he  should  pack  all  Letty's  belongings, 
and  in  the  morning  send  them  to  her  mother's 
house  and,  leaving  Ben  Seelye  to  meet  the  couple, 
come  to  Squire  Kayley's  place  outside  the  town. 
For,  at  any  cost,  Nick  and  Loftus  must  be  kept 
apart. 

"  Don't  receive  her,"  he  said,  "  but  give  her  a 
chance  to  clear  herself." 

"  And  Loftus  ?"  Nick  snarled  between  his  teeth. 

"What's  Loftus  done?"  the  Squire  asked — 
"  Letty's  not  the  kind  to  be  led — nor  driven." 

"  If  Loftus  blames  her  I'll  kill  him." 

"  No,  we  are  not  going  to  have  any  bloodshed," 
the  Squire  went  on ;  "  if  you  can't  hold  yourself, 
I'll  hold  you.  If  I  can't  do  any  better  I'll  put  you 
in  jail." 

Nick  laughed  long  and  loud,  then  burst  into 
tears — "  I  love  her  so  !"  he  cried,  "  I  love  her  so !" 

"Of   course  you   do,"  his   mentor   answered. 
"  And  first  thing  you  know  it  '11  be  all  right." 
138 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

Daylight  found  Reub  Seelye,  with  Letty's 
trunks,  being  driven  out  to  Mrs.  Purdy's ;  Squire 
Kayley  and  Nick  on  their  way  to  the  country,  and 
Ben  Seelye,  with  a  note  in  his  pocket,  and  the  key 
of  Nick's  house,  on  his  way  home  to  breakfast. 

But,  alas !  as  the  day  wore  on  and  Ben  did  not 
come  with  news  of  Letty's  arrival,  Nick  became 
almost  wild ;  then  the  Squire  tried  to  soothe  him 
into  quiet  with  talk  of  a  divorce. 

"  You  think  she's  too  far  gone  to  shed  blood 
for,"  Nick  said,  at  last,  his  voice  grown  low  and 
weak  from  weariness — "that's  what  you  said 
about  that  other  woman  at  the  North  ;  you  want 
me  to  sue  Loftus  for  his  money,  and  let  him  have 
Letty?  Great  God!" 

"  Do  you  want  her?" 

"But  Loftus,"  Nick  reiterated— " leave  her  to 
Loftus!" 

"Humanity's  strange,"  the  Squire  began,  slow- 
ly ;  "let  'em  have  what  they  want,  and  ten  to 
one  they  don't  want  it.  Letty  belongs  to  you, 
and  that  makes  her  the  one  thing  on  earth  that 
Loftus  wants.  You  belong  to  Letty,  and  that 
cheapens  you  in  her  sight.  Let  her  go  — that 
minute  your  value  will  double,  and,  like  Esau, 
she'll  shed  many  and  bitter  tears  for  what  she 
threw  away.  Let  her  go ;  and  Loftus  will  won- 
der what  it  was  that  made  him  so  crazy.  ^There's 
nothing  makes  a  man  feel  so  God -forsaken  as 
to  be  left  to  follow  his  own  evil  courses— -as 
to  say  to  him,  '  You've  hurt  me  beyond  help — 
take  what  you've  been  striving  for  and  go  your 
139 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

way  ' — and  right  then  and  there  the  tip-top  apple 
on  the  tree  that  he's  been  fighting  for  turns  to 
dust  and  ashes  in  his  mouth,  and  he  can  never — 
never — never  get  you  and  your  maimed  life  out 
of  his  heart.  But  just  lift  one  finger  to  revenge 
yourself,  and  you  lift  the  burden  from  his  heart 
on  to  your  own.  Let  'em  go,  boy,  wash  your 
hands  clean  of  'em,  and  after  a  while  peace  will 
come  to  you — peace  such  as  you've  never  dreamed 
of.  But  not  to  them,  they'll  have  entered  on  a 
new  lease  of  tribulation — for  'what  ye  mete,  it 
shall  be  measured  to  you  again.'  I'm  not  much 
of  a  preaching  Christian,"  he  went  on,  in  a  lower 
tone,  "  but  there's  one  thing  I've  read  in  Scripture 
— just  a  few  words — 'Are  not  all  these  things 
written  in  Thy  book?'  " 

Nick  sat  silent,  his  arms  crossed  on  the  table 
and  his  head  bowed  on  them.  No  food  had  passed 
his  lips,  and  he  was  faint  and  weary,  and  for  a 
little  while  he  seemed  to  see  as  Squire  Kayley 
saw,  and  so  he  fell  into  the  deep  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  setting  Ben  Seelye  rode 
slowly  into  the  yard  and  around  to  the  stable, 
and  the  Squire  stepped  out  very  carefully,  so  as 
not  to  waken  Nick. 

"  She's  come,"  Ben  said,  "  an'  when  she  read 
the  note  she  laughed  a  little,  then  she  turned 
right  white,  and  gave  it  to  Loftus — " 

"And  Loftus?" 

"  He  looked  like  a  rooster  with  his  tail  feathers 
pulled  out,  an'  said  he  thought  he'd  better  leave 
140 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

town  for  a  while,  and  then  he  looked  at  me  and 
sorter  straightened  up,  and  asked  Letty — *  What 
do  you  want  me  to  do  ?'  an'  she  said,  *  Leave  town  ;' 
then  he  turned  to  get  into  his  buggy,  an'  I  told 
him  he'd  better  drive  Letty  out  to  her  mother's, 
'cause  the  servants  were  gone  an'  the  house  locked 
up,  an'  all  Letty's  things  were  out  there  waitin' 
for  her.  It  was  pretty  bad ;  but  they  did  what  I 
said,  an'  I  rode  my  horse  right  behind  'em  through 
the  town,  an*  everybody  stared,  an'  nobody  spoke, 
not  even  Uncle  Adam  Dozier.  It  was  bad.  Lof- 
tus  leaves  at  seven  o'clock,  if  Nick  '11  only  sleep 
till  then." 

Never  in  the  annals  of  Greenville  had  there 
been  such  excitement  as  when  Nick  Tobin  sued 
Loftus  Beesley  for  alienating  his  wife's  affec- 
tions. 

The  whole  town  and  county — men,  women,  and 
children — rose  in  a  solid,  clamoring  body  against 
Squire  Kayley.  Women  who  had  often  torn 
poor  Letty's  character  into  ribbons  now  rallied 
around  her,  declaring  that  to  bring  a  woman  into 
such  unheard-of  publicity,  into  court,  subjecting 
her  even  to  the  evidence  of  her  negro  servants, 
was  to  destroy  not  only  all  the  old  and  time- 
honored  customs,  but  to  subvert  society. 

Uncle  Adam  proclaimed  that  any  man  in 
Nick's  position  who  did  not  shoot  his  rival  was 
a  coward,  and  that  if  Squire  Kayley  had  not 
meddled,  it  would  all  have  been  arranged  as  of 
old ;  Loftus  decently  buried  and  his  money  left 
to  his  family,  Nick  could  have  come  back,  and 
141 


f 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

everybody  would  have  been  his  friend ;  and 
Letty — well,  Letty  would  have  been  a  "  grass 
widder  "  with  a  bad  name.  Now  Squire  Kayley's 
methods  had  turned  the  two  sinners  into  hero 
and  heroine,  and  the  injured  man  had  become  an 
object  of  pity  and  contempt,  who  deserved  all 
he  got ! 

Every  sort  of  compromise  was  suggested,  but 
Squire  Kayley  was  determined  to  teach  a  lesson 
once  and  for  all  to  his  native  town,  and  he  did  it — 
an  awful,  searching,  withering  lesson  that  revealed 
to  mothers,  and  fathers,  and  brothers  the  peril- 
ousness  of  the  liberty  which  they  accorded  their 
young  daughters  and  sisters ;  which  revealed  to 
the  women  the  views  of  themselves  as  given  in 
the  talk  of  the  men  who  formed  their  society  ; 
which  revealed  to  the  men  their  own  unloveli- 
ness  as  seen  by  purer  eyes  and  an  unanswerable 
logic ;  an  awful,  withering  lesson  that  was  as  if 
the  whole  town  had  been  driven  into  the  Palace 
of  Truth,  there  to  endure  a  day  of  terrible  judg- 
ment. 

Through  it  all  Squire  Kayley  kept  Nick  away, 
travelling,  as  usual,  for  the  firm  that  employed 
him,  while  Loftus  met  the  public  eye  only  when 
the  dreadful  engine  of  the  law  dragged  him  into 
view,  showing  him  in  all  sorts  of  false  and  pitiful 
guises.  The  Squire  was  virtually  ostracized,  but 
he  had  the  courage  of  his  convictions  and  the 
spirit  of  the  martyr,  which  every  man  should 
have  who  undertakes  the  work  of  reform. 

At  last  it  was  over.  Loftus  had  to  sell  most  of 
142 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

his  possessions  to  pay  costs  and  damages  ;  Letty 
hid  herself  in  her  mother's  house,  while  Nick, 
travelling  incessantly,  did  not  hear  the  half  that 
was  said,  and  paid  no  heed  whatever  to  the  money 
that  was  now  to  his  credit  in  the  Greenville  bank. 
The  town  subsided,  having  become  "  sadder  and 
wiser,"  and  Squire  Kayley's  reward,  for  he  had 
declined  all  fees,  was  to  see  that  when  expedi- 
tions were  organized,  at  least  one  mother  went 
to  look  after  the  young  people  ;  and  that  brothers 
and  fathers  took  some  heed  as  to  who  escorted 
their  sisters  and  daughters  ;  further,  the  girls 
themselves  were  seen  less  often  on  the  streets, 
and  it  became  a  great  breach  of  social  observance 
for  any  woman  to  pass  the  hotel. 

All  this  soberness  was  gall  and  wormwood  to 
Uncle  Adam  Dozier,  who  having,  through  the  fall 
of  Squire  Kayley,  regained  the  position  he  had 
lost  because  of  his  defeat  by  Sam,  bloomed  once 
more  into  the  hotel-piazza  orator  of  happier  days, 
and  from  this  altitude  he  made  one  declaration 
which  raised  a  puzzling  question  for  the  people 
of  Greenville. 

"  Josh  Kayley  is  the  most  immoral  man  in  this 
town,"  he  declared,  boldly  ;  "  he  is  attempting  to 
reduce  everything  to  a  money  value,  an'  says  thet 
even  our  mos'  sacred  affections  kin  be  paid  fur. 
It's  wrong  —  it's  damned  wrong;  an'  I  say  thet 
the  man  who  kin  spen'  the  money  gained  through 
the  ruin  of  his  wife  is  a  poltroon  an'  a  sneak  ! 
But  Josh  Kayley  ner  no  other  man  kin  bring  us 
to  sich  er  pass — no,  sir,  I  tell  you  the  end  is  not 
143 


SQUIRE   KAYLEY'S    CONCLUSIONS 

yet,  an'  you'll   see   I'm   right  —  wait,  an*  you'll 


see 


So  Greenville,  a  little  at  a  loss  between  the 
practical  ills  as  exemplified  by  Uncle  Adam,  and 
the  theoretical  ills  as  exemplified  by  the  Squire, 
waited. 

In  a  convict-worked  coal-mine  two  prisoners 
labored  side  by  side,  a  negro  and  a  white  man. 
In  the  dim  light  cast  on  each  by  the  other's  lamp 
the  negro  showed  a  contented,  rather  cheerful 
face,  and  worked  skilfully,  while  the  white  man, 
young  and  comely,  was  haggard  and  hopeless, 
and  worked  clumsily.  The  negro  watched  him 
furtively,  but  a  guard  stood  near,  for  the  white 
man  was  a  new  prisoner,  and  the  negro  did  not 
speak.  After  a  while  sounds  of  laughter  came 
from  a  group  nearer  the  opening,  and  the  guard 
moved  on  ;  then  the  negro  said  : 

"  Fur  Gawd's  sake !  Marse  Nick,  whar's  you 
come  from  ?" 

For  the  first  time  the  white  man  looked  at  his 
companion.  "  Sam,"  he  said,  "  you  here  ?" 

"  Yassir,  Marse  Nick,  I  git  yer  kase  o'  dat  money 
what  Marse  Josh  got  f  umme  f 'um  ole  Marse  Adam 
Dozier.  Over  to  Duserville  a  gal  fool  me  kase  o1 
dat  money,  en  her  mammy  had  er  funerl  to  per- 
wide,  an'  I  come  yer — yassir.  An*  you,  Marse 
Nick — you  got  yo'  money,  too,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  got  my  money,  too,  Sam,"  the  young 
man  answered,  wielding  his  pick  deliberately, 
"  an'  I  gave  it  all  to  your  Miss  Letty  ;  she  never 
144 


SQUIRE    KAYLEY'S   CONCLUSIONS 

had  worked,  an'  I  wasn't  satisfied  to  think  about 
her  workin'." 

"  Yassir,  Marse  Nick,  en  den,  sir  ?" 

"  An'  then  I  heard  'bout  the  things  your  Marse 
Loftus  had  said  'bout  her  on  the  trial,  an'  so  I 
killed  him  ;  for  I  thought  the  trial  was  'tween  me 
an'  him,  not  her,  an'  while  I  was  killin'  him  I  told 
him  why  I  did  it ;  not  'cause  he'd  hurt  me,  but 
'cause  of  what  he'd  said  'bout  my  wife  on  the 
trial.  I  told  him  so — I  got  him  by  himself,  an'  I 
told  him;  then  I  killed  him  —  killed  him  slow, 
him,  my  old  friend." 

"An*  Marse  Josh  !"  the  negro  was  breathless. 

"  I  told  the  Squire  that  I'd  tried  my  best  to  do 
his  way,  but  no  man  could  say  the  things  Loftus 
had  said  about  my  wife  on  that  trial  an'  live.  I 
was  sorry  to  disappoint  the  Squire,  for  he's  right 
in  the  main,  but  my  case  was  diff'runt." 

"  An'  Marse  Adam  Dozier  ?" 

"  He  said  I  was  right,  an'  a  gentleman,  but  I 
told  him  no,  that  the  Squire  was  right,  but  my 
case  was  diff'runt." 


WITHOUT  THE  COURTS 


WITHOUT  THE  COURTS 


IT  was  a  wide  marsh,  with  a  dim  blue  shore  on 
the  other  side.  Away  down  to  the  right  the 
horizon  was  clear,  for  there  was  the  sea  into 
which  the  tide-water  river  emptied  itself.  To 
the  left  the  river  showed  more  definitely  and  in 
longer  reaches,  though  still  shored  by  the  marsh. 
The  low  sand  bluff  that  bounded  the  marsh  on 
the  south  was  fringed  with  saw-palmettoes  and 
bunches  of  wild  myrtle,  with  here  and  there 
a  solemn  pine  rising  to  lonely  heights,  and  here 
and  there  wide-spreading,  moss-draped  oaks  mak- 
ing dense  shadows. 

Where  the  trees  were  thickest  a  plantation- 
house,  built  very  much  on  the  plan  of  the  oaks, 
low  and  wide-spreading,  stood  looking  out  through 
its  old-fashioned,  small-paned  windows,  as  it  had 
looked  for  many,  many  changing  years  over  the 
desolate  marsh  and  sinuous  river.  So  many  had 
lived  and  loved,  had  come  and  gone,  in  that  plain, 
heavily  timbered  old  house,  that  at  last  it  seemed 
almost  to  have  acquired  personality  and  the 
cheerful  expression  of  a  serene  old  age,  which 
149 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

could  look  back  on  a  simple,  honorable,  kindly 
past,  and  forward  to  a  safe  future.  To-day  its 
outlook  was  misty,  for  a  fine  white  film  was 
stretched  across  the  sky  that  dimmed  the  sun- 
shine a  little,  and  blurred  the  outline  of  the  far 
horizon.  A  mild,  gray  day,  which,  while  demand- 
ing fires,  yet  permitted  the  master  of  the  house 
to  bring  his  book  to  the  front  piazza.  His  feet 
were  on  the  banisters,  his  chair  was  tilted  back, 
and  a  soft  hat  was  drawn  a  little  over  his  eyes. 
Some  pipes  and  a  box  of  tobacco  were  on  another 
chair  beside  him,  and  at  a  little  distance  a  red 
setter  lay,  with  his  head  on  his  front  paws,  watch- 
ing his  master  wistfully,  with  now  and  then  a 
nervous  start  and  a  tremulous  long  breath  that 
was  almost  a  whimper.  Out  on  the  bluff,  under 
the  trees,  a  negro  woman  sat  sewing,  and  a  little 
child,  with  long  fair  curls  creeping  out  from 
under  the  deep  frill  of  her  white  sun-bonnet, 
played  beside  her. 

It  was  very  still — so  still  that  as  far  away  as 
she  was  the  words  of  the  child  would  now  and 
then  reach  her  father  where  he  sat,  and  hearing, 
he  would  lift  his  head  and  look  towards  the  little 
group.  It  was  a  dull-looking  book  that  he  held, 
bound  in  brown  leather,  and  heavy ;  for  when 
wheels  were  heard  driving  up  to  the  side  door, 
and  he  dropped  it  on  the  floor,  it  jarred  loudly, 
so  that  the  sound  reached  the  child  under  the 
trees.  She  focussed  her  long  bonnet  on  her 
father  as  he  moved  quickly  down  the  piazza  and 
cut  across  the  corner  to  the  side  steps,  where  an 
150 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

open  vehicle  had  stopped  ;  then  catching  sight  of 
the  traveller  who  had  arrived,  she  ran  towards 
him  as  fast  as  her  little  legs  could  move,  crying, 
"Tad!  Tad!" 

The  two  men  shook  hands ;  a  servant,  coming 
round  from  the  back,  took  a  valise  from  the 
wagon;  and  Tad  going  to  meet  the  child,  the 
master  turned  to  the  coachman. 

"  Did  your  mistress  give  you  any  orders  last 
night  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  suh,"  the  negro  answered;  "Miss  Lise 
say  f uh  me  to  come  to  de  P'int  f uh  her  dis  mawn- 
in'  des  es  soon  es  I  bring  Mass  Tad  from  de 
station." 

"Then  go  at  once,"  and  Mr.  Beverley  pulled 
out  his  watch. 

"Yes,  and  be  in  a  hurry."  When  once  more 
he  had  reached  his  chair,  Beverley  pushed  the 
heavy  book  aside  with  his  foot,  then,  as  if  on 
second  thought,  he  turned  it  up  so  that  the  title 
would  show. 

Before  he  took  his  seat  he  drew  another  big 
chair  forward,  then  filling  his  pipe  he  lighted  it 
slowly  while  he  watched  his  friend,  who,  having 
returned  the  child  to  her  nurse,  was  coming  tow- 
ards the  house,  stooping  and  patting  the  dog 
as  he  came.  "  Poor  old  doggie,"  he  said,  "  who's 
been  trampling  on  you  ?  What  ails  him,  George  ?" 
he  went  on,  when  he  reached  the  piazza.  "  Hels 
trembling  as  if  he  had  a  chill,  and  winces  as  if  he 
were  sore." 

"  I  had  to  thrash  him  this  morning,"  Beverley 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

answered,  and  a  gleam  came  into  his  eyes  that 
seemed  to  stop  the  poor  dog  in  his  tracks,  and 
he  lay  down  as  before,  tremulous  and  watchful. 

Tad's  own  eyes  took  on  a  watchful  look. 
"  Where's  Lise  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Over  at  Aunt  Bowman's." 

Then,  as  sitting  down  Tad's  foot  struck  the 
big  book,  he  said,  "  Reading  law,  and  beating  old 
Dash,  and  writing  me  that  extraordinary  letter 
yesterday,  something  must  be  very  wrong,  George 
— by  Jove  !  infernally  wrong." 

Beverley  handed  him  the  tobacco-box  and 
pipes.  "  Light  up,"  he  said. 

Tad  obeyed,  and  for  a  little  while  they  smoked 
in  silence  ;  then  Tad,  still  with  the  watchful  look 
in  his  eyes,  went  on  : 

"  Your  letter  bothered  me — bothered  me  be- 
cause I  could  not  come  out  yesterday." 

"Yes,"  Beverley  answered,  "I  meant  you  to 
come  yesterday." 

"  I've  wanted  to  come  all  winter,"  Tad  went 
on,  "  but  I've  been  away  attending  court,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  you  had  come,"  and  Beverley  blew 
out  clouds  of  smoke.  "  That  letter  should  have 
been  written  long  ago.  Well,  I  sent  for  you  as 
my  lawyer,  Tad,  and  as  you  did  not  come  yester- 
day, I  reduced  everything  to  writing." 

"  Reduced  what  to  writing  ?" 

"  My  instructions  ;"  then  Beverley  turned  his 
head  away,  and  added,  "  I've  decided  to  sell." 

Tad's  chair  came  down  on  its  front  legs  with  a 
152 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

bang ;  his  pipe,  jarred  from  its  stem,  fell  on  the 
floor,  and  the  dog  sprang  up  with  a  nervous 
yelp. 

Beverley  nodded  as  if  he  had  expected  this  out- 
break, and  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips  he  began 
to  stir  the  tobacco  in  the  bowl  with  his  knife- 
blade,  watching  his  own  motions  attentively.  "  I 
know  all  that  you  want  to  say,"  he  went  on,  "  but 
there's  no  use  in  saying  it.  I  know  that  no  creat- 
ure has  ever  owned  this  land  but  Beverleys ;  I 
know  that  I  belong  to  the  soil  as  that  tree  does ; 
I  know  that  it  would  have  broken  my  mother's 
heart,  and  my  father's" — his  voice  shook  a  little. 
"  Well,  never  mind  ;  if  he  knew,  he  would  com- 
mend what  I  have  done." 

Tad  was  still  leaning  forward,  with  the  pipe- 
stem  forgotten  between  his  fingers,  gazing  at  the 
pipe-bowl  forgotten  on  the  floor.  Beverley  was 
looking  out  across  the  marsh. 

"  That  club  has  offered  me  a  fancy  price,"  he 
continued,  his  voice  growing  more  and  more 
monotonous,  as  if  he  had  rehearsed  his  speech, 
"  and  I  mean  to  take  it.  They  want  this  house 
just  as  it  stands,  the  high  lands,  and  the  fields 
down  to  the  barn  ;  in  short,  all  of  the  original 
Beverley  tract,  which  will  give  them  the  best 
shooting  and  fishing.  I  want  you  to  begin  at 
once  to  look  up  the  deeds,  and  to  get  everything 
in  readiness  ;  but  I  do  not  want  the  bargain  con- 
cluded, nor  the  transfer  made,  until  next  autumn, 
and  I  shall  put  everything  into  your  hands,  as  I 
do  not  wish  to  enter  into  any  of  the  details.  I 
153 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

shall  keep  all  the  up-river  tract  and  continue  to 
plant  it,  living  in  the  overseer's  house — " 

"And  Lise  and  the  child ?"  Tad  interrupted  ; 
and  now  he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  fallen  pipe 
and  fixed  them  on  his  friend's  averted  face. 

"They  will  go  to  Europe — and  live  there." 
There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  Beverley  went 
on :  u  The  money  I  get  for  this  place,  together 
with  what  I  make  planting,  will  enable  me  to  keep 
them  there — the  child  always  under  the  super- 
vision of  a  careful  English  governess,  to  whom  I 
myself  will  give  instructions,  for  I  shall  take  them 
over.  In  case  of  my  death,  there  is  yourself,  and 
my  life  insurance  made  out  to  the  child — " 

Tad  grasped  his  arm.  "George!"  —  and  he 
shook  him  as  if  to  waken  him  —  "George,  for 
God's  sake,  tell  me  all !" 

"  I  am  telling  you  all." 

"  But  Lise  has  learned  to  love  the  place  !" 

"  Yes,  she  has  learned  to  love  the  place." 

"  And  your  aunt  Bowman,  and  Jack,  and  Sandy, 
like  your  own  brothers  !  George,  you'll  pull  up 
the  growth  of  generations  !" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  the  look  across  the 
marsh  became  more  set. 

"  George  !" — again  shaking  his  arm — "  George, 
for  God's  sake,  tell  me  all !" 

"  I  am  telling  you  all.  Aunt  Bowman  ?  Yes, 
it  will  hurt  her  ;  this  was  her  father's  house — " 

"And  Sandy  !"  Tad  struck  in,  leaning  a  little 
more  forward,  trying  to  get  a  better  view  of  his 
friend's  face. 

154 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

Beverley  glanced  round  at  the  dog.  "  Get 
away  from  here  !"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet, 
his  eyes  flashing.  The  dog  fled  down  the  steps, 
and  the  men's  eyes  met. 

"  I  am  telling  you  all !"  Beverley  repeated, 
harshly.  "  And  it  will  be  better  for  the  child." 
He  sat  down  again,  while  a  deathly,  spent  look 
came  over  his  face,  and  the  dog  once  more  crept 
up  the  steps. 

"  Better — best,"  he  went  on,  as  if  to  himself. 
"  Best — yes.  And  as  I  have  no  son — thank  God  ! — 
no  son, what  does  it  matter?  Traditions?  memo- 
ries ?  all  marred  and  blotted — stained.  And  the 
place  must  not  be  called  Beverley  any  more  ;  the 
name  must  vanish.  You  hear,  Tad  ?"  lifting  his 
head  quickly.  "You  must  stipulate  about  the 
name." 

Tad  put  down  the  pipe-stem  at  last,  put  it  into 
the  tobacco-box  with  an  exaggerated  carefulness 
as  if  it  were  spun  glass,  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  piazza.  After  a  turn  or  two  he 
saw  Beverley  bend  his  head  to  one  side  as  if  lis- 
tening. 

"  You  think  you  hear  the  carriage,"  he  said. 
"  I  wish  Lise  would  come ;  I  don't  think  she 
should  stay  away  when  you  are  so  worried." 

"  It  was  my  arrangement,"  Beverley  answered, 
coldly ;  "  and  I  do  not  need  a  keeper,  Tad." 

There  was  silence  while  Tad  walked  the  length 

of  the  piazza  and  back,  then  he  paused  behind 

Beverley's  chair.     "  George,"  he  said,  "  I  love  you 

as  I  love  myself,  but  as  surely  as   my  name  is 

i55 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

Thaddeus  Marvin,  I'll  throw  up  your  business, 
and  even  your  friendship,  before  I'll  help  you  to 
do  this  thing." 

Beverley  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  No,"  he 
said — "  no  you  won't,"  and  again  silence  fell  be- 
tween them. 

Somewhere  within  the  house  a  clock  ticked ; 
a  bird  fluttered  down  to  a  rose-bush  in  front,  and 
the  laughter  of  the  little  child  came  clear  and 
sweet  from  the  river  bank.  Presently  the  dog 
lifted  its  head  sidewise  and  grew  rigid,  and  Bever- 
ley, putting  his  pipe  slowly  into  the  tobacco-box, 
laid  his  two  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  Tad 
looked  quickly  from  one  to  the  other.  The  dog 
heard  something  that  the  master  expected  to 
hear !  Then  coming  nearer  on  the  still  air  was 
the  thud  of  a  horse's  hoofs,  and  a  mad  rattle  of 
wheels.  The  dog  rushed  out,  barking  wildly ;  the 
negro  woman  gathered  the  child  up  into  her 
arms ;  Tad  ran  to  the  side  steps,  and  Beverley 
rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 

On  the  horse  came;  but  now  Tad  could  see 
that  the  driver  was  urging  him,  and  that  the 
lady  on  the  back  seat  was  leaning  forward  urging 
the  driver.  What  was  she  fleeing  from  !  It  was 
scarcely  a  moment  before  they  reached  the  steps, 
and  Tad  sprang  forward. 

"  What  is  it,  Lise?"  he  cried,  and  almost  lifted 
her  from  the  wagon. 

Her  forget-me-not-blue  eyes  looked  as  if  they 
had  seen  some  dreadful  vision,  which  they  would 
forever  see ;  her  fair  hair,  blown  out  here  and 
156 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

there  by  the  wind,  crisped  and  curled  about  a 
pallid  face;  her  colorless  lips  were  drawn  back 
squarely,  as  in  a  mask  of  tragedy,  and  her  breath 
seemed  hard  to  get. 

"What  is  it?"  Tad  repeated. 

She  clutched  his  shoulder.  "Sandy,"  she 
whispered — "brought  home  dead!"  She  drew  a 
long,  sobbing  breath — "shot!" 

In  Tad's  honest  eyes  that  looked  into  hers 
there  dawned  a  growing  horror  of  knowledge  : 
and  slowly,  as  if  directed  by  some  stronger  power, 
he  loosened  her  hand  from  off  his  shoulder  and 
laid  it  on  the  railing  of  the  steps. 

"  Call  the  carriage  back,"  Beverley  said,  look- 
ing down  on  them  from  above,  "  I  must  be  needed 
at  the  Point." 

A  rigidity  crept  over  the  trembling  woman ; 
she  drew  her  lips  together,  catching  the  lower 
one  with  her  teeth,  and  began  to  mount  the  steps 
as  a  blind  person  might.  At  the  top,  her  hus- 
band stood  aside,  out  of  her  way ;  their  eyes  met 
-—it  was  not  long — then  she  passed  on  slowly  into 
the  house. 

It  was  very  still  at  the  Point  when  they  arrived. 
Mrs.  Bowman  sent  at  once  for  her  nephew  to 
come  to  her  where  she  had  shut  herself  into  her 
room,  while  Tad  took  his  seat  on  the  front  piazza 
with  others  who  were  waiting  about,  and  watch- 
ing, and  talking  in  hushed  voices. 

"It  is  so  dreadful!"  said  the  distant  cousin, 
who  took  her  seat  next  to  Tad.  "  Sandy  was  so 
handsome  !  and  his  mother's  darling — me !  me ! 
157 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

it  is  always  the  dearest  who  is  taken,"  wiping 
her  eyes.  "  And  last  night  he  was  the  gayest  of 
the  gay — he  and  Lise  Beverley.  George  went 
home  early,  just  as  soon  as  they  began  to  dance. 
He  is  so  quiet,  you  know,  so  deadly  still.  I  al- 
ways feel  a  little  bit  sorry  for  Lise ;  poor,  pretty, 
gay  Lise.  But  George  left  her  here  last  night, 
and  she  was  in  a  gale  of  spirits,  she  and  Sandy, 
dancing  like  mad,  and  keeping  us  in  roars  of 
laughter.  Cousin  Bowman  was  so  pleased  to  see 
the  young  ones  so  gay,  and  to  think ! — oh,  me ! 
to  think !" — and  again  she  wiped  away  her  tears. 
"Have  you  heard  the  particulars?"  she  went  on, 
turning  squarely  on  her  silent  companion. 

Tad  shook  his  head.  "  Only  the  bare  fact,"  he 
answered. 

"  How  strange  !"  Then  she  began  eagerly  : 
"  Sandy  went  out  very  early  this  morning  to 
shoot — he  often  does,  you  know — and  told  the 
boatmen  to  meet  him  at  nine  o'clock  at  the  long 
bend  below  the  far  swamp — you  know  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  Tad  answered. 

"  And  they  found  him  lying  there  dead  !  Acci- 
dent, of  course,  for  both  barrels  of  his  gun  were 
empty,  and  just  by  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree ;  he 
must  have  tripped  in  stepping  over  it,  don't  you 
think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Tad  answered  again. 

"  They  brought  him  home ;  we  were  all  late  at 

breakfast,  laughing  and  talking,  and  those  stupid 

negroes  brought  him  to  the  front  landing !     Lise 

saw  the  boat  coming.     '  There's  Sandy !'  she  said, 

158 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

and  ran  out.  Oh,  it  was  awful !  Cousin  Bow- 
man and  Jack  were  nearly  frantic  !"  This  time 
she  sobbed  a  little,  and  others  near  wiped  their 
eyes. 

"  Jack  has  gone  out  to  walk  by  himself,  poor 
fellow,"  she  went  on,  recovering  herself, "  and  I'm 
so  glad  George  has  come  over ;  he'll  be  a  comfort 
to  Cousin  Bowman.  He  and  Sandy  have  always 
been  so  devoted  ;  he's  like  another  son  to  Cousin 
Bowman;  she  depends  on  him  greatly,  as  the 
head  of  her  family.  Poor  George !  he  adored 
Sandy." 

"  Yes,"  Tad  answered,  "  he  did.  He  did  most 
of  Sandy's  work  at  school,  and  took  many  of 
Sandy's  whippings." 

"Poor  George!"  she  repeated,  "it  will  break 
his  heart.  And  Lise — Lise  stood  there  like  a 
dead  woman  while  they  brought  him,  lying  on 
an  old  door,  straight  up  to  her — past  her !  Oh, 
it  was  awful !" 

Tad  rose  hurriedly,  "  Take  this  chair,"  he  said, 
and  gave  his  place  to  a  new-comer.  After  this 
he  kept  himself  as  far  from  his  late  companion 
and  as  near  to  the  hall  door  as  was  possible,  and 
waited  patiently  through  all  the  long,  lagging 
hours,  while  people  came  to  make  inquiries  and 
to  offer  help ;  and  food  was  served  in  the  dining- 
room  and  eaten  between  whispered  sentences 
that  told  the  story  of  the  unfortunate  accident 
over  and  over  again,  and  so  sent  it  away  through 
all  the  country  -  side,  and  into  the  town  news- 
papers. 

159 


WITHOUT    THE    COURTS 

At  last,  as  evening  fell,  Jack  Bowman  came  in 
at  the  back  door,  and  down  the  hall.  Beverley 
came  out  quickly  from  his  aunt's  room,  and  Tad 
stepped  in  from  the  piazza.  The  three  men 
paused  a  moment,  then  Bowman  led  the  way  into 
the  parlor  where,  on  a  couch  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  the  dead  man  lay.  He  shut  the  door  and 
turned  to  Beverley.  "  It  was  buckshot,"  he  said. 

Beverley  nodded.  "  For  our  good  names'  sake 
there  could  be  no  scandal,"  he  answered. 

Bowman  bent  his  head. 

"  He  agreed  in  this,"  Beverley  went  on,  "  and 
arranged  it  all  himself  so  that  no  living  soul, 
and  especially  his  mother,  need  ever  know." 

Again  Bowman  bent  his  head. 

"  And  at  the  last " — Beverley's  voice  broke  a 
little — u  at  the  last  he  fired  both  barrels  into  the 
air." 

Bowman  laid  his  hand  on  the  folded  hands  of 
his  brother,  and  Beverley  turned  towards  the 
door  with  shudders  as  of  mortal  agony  going 
over  him. 

Tad  took  the  reins  himself,  leaving  the  coach- 
man to  walk,  and  he  and  his  friend  drove  through 
the  lonely  night  together.  Through  all  the  dis- 
tance Beverley  sat  silent,  bent  over  like  an  old, 
decrepit  man,  but  as  they  turned  in  at  the  big 
gate,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Tad's  arm. 

"  You  must  take  the  old  dog  with  you,"  he  said, 
"  out  of  my  sight  !     This  morning  I  had  to  beat 
him  to  make  him  come  away,  and  at  the  last  he 
ran  back  and  licked  his  face." 
160 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 


MRS.   GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 


"  And  judge  none  lost ;  but  wait  and  see, 

With  hopeful  pity,  not  disdain  ; 
The  depth  of  the  abyss  may  be 

The  measure  of  the  height  of  pain  ; 
And  love  and  glory,  that  may  raise 
This  soul  to  God  in  after  days." 

"'REELY!  oh,  'Reely  Fleish  !  stop  a  minute  !" 
called  a  young  woman,  who  in  a  flying  wrapper 
was  running  down  what  was  in  courtesy  a  "  gar- 
den-walk," "I  want  to  ask  you  something"  and 
the  young  woman  she  called  turned  and  came 
back  across  the  vacant  piece  of  prairie  that  crept 
like  a  bay  into  the  town  of  Pecan.  For  the  prai- 
rie would  assert  itself,  and  wherever  there  was  a 
vacant  place  the  cactus  and  mesquite  and  hui- 
sachie  sprang  up.  Mrs.  Binkin's  house  fronted 
on  this  great  bay  of  prairie  that  a  few  hundred 
yards  away  ended  in  an  abrupt  bluff ;  below  this 
there  was  the  river,  and  a  stretch  of  lowlands 
that  spread  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see ;  so  that, 
looking  from  Mrs.  Binkin's  house,  the  gnarled 
163 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

live-oak-trees  that  edged  the  bluff  were  cut  clear 
against  the  sky — a  strange,  weird  outlook  that 
very  few,  save  Mrs.  Binkin,  cared  for.  Meanwhile, 
Miss  Anna-Bell  Binkin,  Mrs.  Binkin's  daughter, 
lifted  the  old  bucket-hoop  that  held  the  gate  shut, 
and,  letting  Miss  Aurelia  Fleish  come  in,  began 
at  once  to  speak  on  the  subject  which  at  that 
moment  lay  nearest  her  heart. 

"  Is  it  true  that  'Mandy  Brown's  frien'  has  come 
down  from  Jonesborough  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Law,  yes,"  and  Miss  Fleish  tossed  her  head. 
"  Mary-Lou  Johnson's  her  name,"  she  went  on. 
"  I  seen  her  an'  'Mandy  this  mornin',  and  she  looked 
mighty  airy  ;  I  had  to  laugh  !" 

"  You  don't  say  ;"  and  Miss  Anna-Bell  gath- 
ered up  her  flowing  gown  to  mount  the  steps. 

A  small  porch,  then  a  narrow  hall,  guiltless  of 
furniture  save  for  an  old  hat-stand,  upon  which 
hung  a  long,  black  sun-bonnet  and  an  old  piece 
of  rope  which  at  night  made  the  front  door  fast. 
A  place  with  but  one  redeeming  feature,  the  pict- 
ure framed  in  the  wide-open  back  door.  In  the 
foreground  a  trim  kitchen  -  garden,  where  in 
the  borders  a  few  roses  bloomed  royally ;  farther 
off,  a  strip  of  luxuriant  clover  with  the  cows  knee- 
deep  in  it,  and  beyond,  the  prairie,  that  was  now 
a  great  sweep  of  sun-bathed  blossoms — a  limit- 
less expanse  all  brown  and  orange  and  crimson 
with  the  velvety-soft  coreopsis,  and  gleaming  here 
and  there  with  the  gold  of  the  dwarf  sunflower. 
A  brilliant  picture  that  redeemed  the  shabby  hall, 
if  Miss  Anna-Bell  had  only  known  how  to  see  it ; 
164 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

but  she  closed  the  door  with  a  bang,  for  the  Misses 
Binkin  ignored  even  to  themselves  the  garden  and 
the  cows,  from  which  they  drew  most  of  their  in- 
come. The  front,  with  its  rough  grass  and  few 
weary  cedar-trees,  suited  them  much  better ;  it 
had  a  careless  air  of  leisure  and  wealthy  indiffer- 
ence about  it  that  they  liked,  the  thrift  of  the 
back  premises  being  more  in  accord  with  their 
mother's  old-fashioned  taste. 

Passing  through  the  hall,  Miss  Fleish  was 
ushered  into  a  room  made  excessively  hot  by  a 
fire  which  burned  in  an  open  fireplace,  serving 
to  heat  a  row  of  irons  ;  but,  unlike  the  hall,  this 
room  was  crowded  with  curiously  mixed  furni- 
ture. A  huge  wardrobe,  black  with  age,  and 
finished  with  brass,  seemed  to  support  the  ceil- 
ing, while  the  bedstead,  of  rough,  unpainted  pine, 
was  evidently  home-made  ;  a  butter-churn  stood 
on  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  while  on  the  other 
side  stood  a  great  blue-and-white  India-china  jar, 
filled  with  chips.  A  shining  new  sewing-machine, 
a  painted  pine  basin -stand  and  dressing-table 
were  common  enough,  but  the  few  heavily  carved 
chairs  compensated  for  all.  This  old  furniture, 
despised  by  the  young  women,  was  put  as  far 
from  the  gaudy  parlor  as  Mrs.  Binkin,  who  knew 
its  value  and  the  proof  it  was  of  a  social  past, 
would  permit.  Her  daughters  condemned  it,  at 
least  the  elder  ones  did,  for  there  was  a  little  one 
born  after  the  lapse  of  many  years,  and  just  after 
the  death  of  its  drunken  father,  who  was  quite 
different.  This  child  seemed  to  step  back  to  the 
165 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

older  generation,  seemed  to  suit  and  belong  to 
the  old  furniture,  and  evening  after  evening, 
when  the  elder  sisters  were  out,  this  child,  wrapped 
close  in  her  mother's  arms,  listened  eagerly  to 
the  stories  of  the  time  before  the  old  people  had 
been  driven  to  Texas  by  the  war  that  had  deso- 
lated the  far-away  homestead.  Mrs.  Binkin  had 
succumbed  to  her  surroundings  too  entirely  ever 
to  retrieve  herself,  but  after  her  husband's  death 
she  had  taken  a  new  hold  on  life,  and  had  deter- 
mined that  this  child  should  be  different  from 
her  elder  daughters,  who  were  like  their  father, 
and  of  whom  she  had  long  ago  lost  all  control. 

Now  the  little  girl  sat  on  the  floor  behind  the 
china  jar,  following  with  her  finger  the  strange 
raised  pattern,  far  away  in  a  world  of  her  own, 
while  Mrs.  Binkin,  standing  over  an  ironing-board, 
was  finishing  the  week's  washing  for  the  school- 
master. An  awful  thing  to  Anna-Bell  and  Lily- 
Maud  was  this  washing,  but  it  paid  for  little 
Mary's  schooling,  and  Mrs.  Binkin  now  heeded 
little  beyond  Mary.  As  the  girls  came  in,  Mrs. 
Binkin,  without  turning  from  her  work,  greeted 
the  new-comer,  while  Anna-Bell,  pushing  forward 
a  chair  for  Miss  Fleish,  returned  to  the  sewing- 
machine,  where  something  of  a  gorgeous  plaid  pat- 
tern was  in  process  of  making.  Miss  Fleish  took 
her  seat  with  a  flourish,  then,  in  a  clear  peacock 
voice,  that  rose  easily  above  the  whir  of  the  ma- 
chine, continued  the  conversation  she  had  begun 
outside. 

"  Mary-Lou  Johnson,  that's  her  name,"  she  be- 
166 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

gan,  "and  she's  rich, and  dresses  tip-top,  you  bet," 
nodding  her  head.  "  She  thinks  lots  of  herself, 
too,  and  Mandy  Brown  thinks  she's  done  great 
things  havin'  a  girl  away  from  Jonesborough  to 
stay  with  her." 

"  Law,  yes,  she's  been  talkin'  about  it  enough," 
and  Anna-Bell  stopped  the  machine  with  a  sharp 
click  and  looked  over  her  shoulder  as  she  asked  : 
"  Who's  goin'  with  Milly  Conway  to  Mis'  Golly- 
haw's  this  evenin'  ?"  Even  Mrs.  Binkin  paused 
and  turned  at  this  question,  and  'Reely's  eyes 
grew  sharper,  and  her  lips  thinner,  as  she  an- 
swered, "  I  hear  she's  goin'  with  the  school-mas- 
ter, but  my  brother  Billy  says  that  if  she  does  go 
with  Mr.  Forbes  there'll  be  somebody  missin'  by 
to-morrow." 

"  Billy  Fleish  said  that,  did  he,  'Reely  ?"  and 
Mrs.  Binkin  turned  on  the  visitor.  "  I  wish  Tom 
Conway  had  heard  him."  Then,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone,  "  But  it's  time  this  feud  between 
the  Conways  and  the  Fleishes  should  stop,  and 
your  father  ought  to  stop  it." 

"Who  cares,"  'Reely  sneered,  in  return  ;  "just 
so  long  as  your  Conways,  '  dandy  Tom'  and  all,  go 
under,  the  Fleishes  will  be  satisfied ;  but  it  beats 
me  what  the  men  see  in  Milly  Conway,  anyhow." 

"They  know  what  they  see,"  Mrs.  Binkin  retort- 
ed, "but  I  don't  understand  what  right  Billy  Fleish 
has  to  shoot  Mr.  Forbes  because  Milly  likes  him. 
A  girl  has  a  right  to  choose  if  she  has  the  chance, 
and  Mr.  Forbes  is  a  gentleman,  and  has  taught 
Milly  heaps  ;  and,"  with  a  softer  tone  coming  into 
167 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S  CANDY-STEW 

her  voice,  "  Milly's  the  sweetest  girl  in  Pecan,  and 
the  kindest." 

"  And  my  brother  Billy  ain't  good  enough,  I 
suppose/'  'Reely  sneered,  angrily  ;  "  I'll  let  you 
know,  Mis'  Binkin,  that  Billy  B.  Fleish,  junior,  can 
buy  out  all  the  Forbeses  and  Conways  in  this 
country." 

"All  but  Milly,"  and  Mrs.  Binkin  returned  to 
her  ironing  as  the  door  opened  to  admit  her 
second  daughter,  a  smaller  edition  of  Anna-Bell. 

"  Howdy,  'Reely,"  in  a  slow  and  nasal  voice ; 
"  and  what's  Mar  off  on  ?" 

"  Milly  Conway,"  Anna  -  Bell  answered,  and 
turning  once  more  to  the  machine,  she  went  on. 
"Don't  mind  Mar,  'Reely,  she's  been  off  her  head 
about  two  things  ever  since  I  can  remember — 
Milly  Conway  and  little  Mary." 

"  Drop  it,  drop  it,"  Lily-Maud  said,  languidly  ; 
"that's  worn  out." 

'Reely  tossed  her  head.  "  I  don't  give  a  cent," 
she  said,  "  'bout  Milly,  nor  Billy,  nor  Forbes,  but 
Par  says  shootin's  too  good  for  any  Fleish  that  'd 
run  after  a  Conway." 

"  And  death  would  be  a  heap  sweeter  to  Milly," 
Mrs.  Binkin  retorted,  "  than  to  marry  Billy  Fleish, 
if  he  owned  the  whole  of  Texas."  Then  she  add- 
ed, slowly,  "  There's  other  things  besides  money, 
'Reely  Fleish." 

"  Drop  it,  drop  it,"  Lily-Maud  repeated,  and  Mrs. 
Binkin  leaving  the  room,  followed  by  little  Mary, 
the  young  women  had  the  conversation  their  own 

way, 

168 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

It  took  only  a  moment  for  Mrs.  Binkin  to  put 
on  the  old  sun-bonnet  from  the  hat-stand,  and 
with  little  Mary  trotting  beside  her  to  make  her 
way  down  through  the  garden  and  pasture  to  the 
bars  at  the  back  of  the  lot.  From  this  she  fol- 
lowed a  foot-path  through  the  breadth  of  flowers 
that  brushed  softly  against  her  limp  black  calico, 
and  struck  into  a  narrow  lane  between  wire  fences 
where  the  deep  black  ruts,  now  dry  and  dusty, 
showed  the  depth  to  which  the  mud  could  go. 
On  one  side  there  was  a  narrow  track  zigzagging 
in  and  out  to  avoid  the  thorny  bunches  of  hui- 
sachie  and  mesquite — a  track  made  by  the  cows, 
and  used  thankfully  by  the  people.  A  long, 
dreary  lane,  with  the  remains  of  an  orchard  on 
one  side  and  an  old  field  on  the  other — a  desper- 
ate bog  in  winter,  and  in  summer  a  furnace 
heated  seven  times. 

Swiftly  Mrs.  Binkin  walked,  a  tall,  straight 
figure  blackly  defined  in  the  glare  of  the  sun- 
light, her  dark  eyes  gleaming,  and  her  black  hair, 
always  untidy,  blowing  across  her  strongly  cut, 
sun-browned  face.  It  was  a  tired,  hardened  face 
to  all  save  little  Mary,  or  to  Milly  Conway  whose 
presence  brought  back  to  the  middle-aged  woman 
the  love  of  her  life.  Few  knew  the  old  story,  or 
the  blackness  of  the  tragedy,  but  Mrs.  Binkin's 
contemporaries  remembered  that  when  she  was 
Milly  Withers,  the  belle  of  the  settlement,  and 
supposed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  marrying  Jim 
Conway,  Milly 's  father,  she  had  astonished  the 
town  by  disappearing  with  Fleish,  a  man  whom 
169 


MRS,  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

she  had  refused,  and  whom  she  openly  despised. 
But  Fleish,  coming  back  in  a  short  time,  said  that 
he  had  carried  her  off  for  his  friend  Joe  Bmkin, 
who  was  then  living  on  a  far-away  ranch.  The 
girl  being  an  orphan  living  with  an  old  grand- 
mother, who  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  her 
neighbors,  and  who  buried  this,  that  seemed  a 
disgrace,  in  silence,  the  transaction  remained  a 
mystery,  but  at  the  same  time  became  the  start- 
ing-point  of  the  feud  between  the  Fleishes  and 
the  Conways.  It  was  years  before  Joe  Binkin 
brought  his  wife  back  to  take  possession  of  the 
old  grandmother's  house,  and  then  old  friends, 
staring  and  wondering, found  it  hard  to  recognize, 
in  the  battered,  rough  woman,  the  pretty  Milly 
Withers  who  had  disappeaTed  so  strangely. 

Few  knew  more  than  the  eye  could  see,  and 
thus  many  wondered  because  of  Mrs.  Binkin's  de- 
votion to  Milly  Conway,  and  because  of  the  girl's 
name.  Why  was  it  that  Jim  Conway  named  his 
only  daughter  after  the  woman  who  had  jilted 
him  so  openly,  so  outrageously  ?  Son  after  son 
had  been  born  to  him.  and  he  seemed  to  have  no 
care  for  them,  but  at  the  last  the  mother  died  in 
giving  birth  to  the  one  little  daughter,  and  the 
reckless,  drink-sodden  man  seemed  to  come  to 
himself,  A  man  notorious  for  his  daring  hardness 
and  roughness  took  the  little  creature  into  his 
arms  and  keeping  as  gently  as  any  woman  could 
have  done  it,  and  as  deftly.  He  paid  no  heed 
to  the  wife  lying  dead,  but  he  looked  down  at  the 
daughter  sfre  had  given  him  as  if  he  had  found 
170 


MRS.   GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

his  life  once  more.  And  when  after  the  funeral 
the  clergyman  said  that  he  would  baptize  the 
child,  Mr.  Conway  held  her  himself  until  the  time, 
then  putting  her  into  the  clergyman's  arms,  scan- 
dalized the  town  by  naming  her  "  Milly  Withers." 
And  the  dark,  hardened  woman  standing  in  the 
background  felt  the  blush  of  her  youth  burning 
in  her  face.  What  she  had  suffered  as  Milly  With- 
ers, what  she  still  suffered  as  Joe  Binkin's  wife,  no 
words  could  tell,  but  in  spite  of  all  she  did  not  jus- 
tify herself  to  Jim  Conway  until  her  husband  was 
dead,  and  Jim  himself  lay  dying.  ^Then  she  went 
and  took  her  place  beside  her  old  lover.  "  And  I 
have  kept  silent,"  she  said,  while  she  held  his  al- 
most nerveless  hand  against  her  faded  cheek,  "that 
this  hand  might  not  be  stained  with  blood  because 
of  me."  And  the  dying  man  cried  aloud  a  curse 
on  Fleish,  the  true  defrauder  of  his  life — an  awful 
curse  that  the  woman  waited  still  to  see  fulfilled. 
And  now,  as  she  hurried  on  her  way,  she  re- 
volved in  her  mind  all  the  possibilities  of  the 
case.  Milly  could  not  stay  away  from  Mrs.  Golly- 
haw's,  because  that  would  look  as  if  she  was 
afraid  of  Billy  ;  she  must  go,  but  she  must  go 
with  Tom,  and  Mrs.  Binkin  must  try  to  see  Tom 
and  tell  him  what  Billy  had  said.  It  might  mean 
death  to  somebody,  but  better  to  Billy  Fleish 
than  to  Mr.  Forbes,  for  whom  she  was  convinced 
Milly  had  a  more  than  common  fancy.  Her  eyes 
glittered  as  she  thought  how  Milly  could  be  hurt 
by  Fleish  in  such  an  event.  "  I'd  kill  him  myself 
first,"  she  muttered. 

171 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

The  end  of  the  lane  was  reached  at  last,  crossed 
by  the  Conway  fence — a  board  fence,  unpainted 
and  gray  with  lichens ;  a  straight  walk,  bordered 
with  purple  flags  that  were  blooming  profusely ; 
then  a  long,  low  house,  overgrown  with  vines, 
and  falling  in  at  one  end.  A  broad  piazza  ran 
the  length  of  the  house,  giving  shelter  to  sets  of 
harness,  to  saddles,  to  barrels,  and  chairs,  and  a 
pile  of  corn  on  the  cob.  One  great  live-oak 
shaded  the  whole  front  of  the  house,  while  at 
the  back  there  were  pecan-trees  so  tall  that  they 
marked  the  place  for  miles  across  the  prairie. 
Mrs  Binkin  paused  at  the  gate,  for  a  horse  with 
blankets  strapped  to  the  saddle  was  tied  there 
as  if  ready  for  a  journey.  She  looked  at  the 
horse  for  a  moment.  "  Billy  Fleish's  horse/' 
she  said. 

"And  he's  coming  out  of  the  house,"  Mary 
said,  from  where  she  stood  near  the  half-hung 
gate.  Mrs.  Binkin  started  a  little,  and  turned 
from  her  contemplation  of  the  horse  to  meet  the 
man  who  was  approaching.  He  was  squarely 
built,  with  a  round,  rough  face,  rather  more 
flushed  than  was  natural,  and  his  air  as  he  kicked 
the  gate  open  was  decidedly  disagreeable. 

"  Does  the  looks  of  that  horse  satisfy  you,  Mis' 
Binkin?"  he  asked. 

"  As  well  as  anything  of  yours  could  satisfy 
me,  Billy  Fleish,"  she  answered,  promptly. 

He  looked  at   her  a  moment  viciously.      "  It 
seems  to  me,"  he  said,  at  last,  "that  Milly  Con- 
way's  been  learnin'  to  talk  from  you." 
172 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

Mrs.  Binkin  laughed.  "  Milly  needs  no  teach- 
in',  Billy  Fleish,  to  talk  to  you." 

Billy's  face  turned  nearly  purple  as  he  jumped 
on  his  horse.  "  If  you  were  a  man,  Mis'  Binkin," 
he  said, "  your  life  would  'a'  been  leakin'  out  by 
now  " 

The  woman  stopped  suddenly  in  her  going, 
and  stepped  back  to  his  horse's  side.  "  My  life 
don't  make  any  difference,  Billy,"  she  said,  with 
a  warning  look  in  her  eyes  that  yet  was  pleading, 
"  and  if  my  life  will  stand  for  any  other  life,  take 
it  and  welcome  " 

The  flush  died  out  of  the  man's  face,  and  he 
jerked  his  horse  back  on  his  haunches.  "You're 
plum'  crazy,"  he  said,  hurriedly;  "I'm  goin'  to 
the  ranch  !"  Then  he  was  gone,  galloping  down 
the  long,  dreary  lane. 

The  inside  of  the  Conway  house  corresponded 
very  fairly  with  the  outside ;  there  was  a  mixture 
of  plenty  and  want,  of  comfort  and  decay,  that  told 
its  own  story  of  money  that  came  easily  and  went 
heedlessly.  On  either  side  of  the  hall  there  were 
two  rooms,  large  and  shadowy ;  the  floors  were 
bare,  and  though  tracked  from  end  to  end  with 
the  ubiquitous  Texas  mud,  they  showed  signs  of 
honest  scouring.  Guns  stood  in  all  the  corners ; 
bridles,  lariats,  powder-flasks  and  shot-bags,  car- 
tridge-belts and  whips  seemed  to  hang  on  every 
nail  and  peg.  One  room  had  beds  in  it,  the  other 
was  chiefly  occupied  by  a  pine  table  now  laid  for 
supper.  A  fire  burned  in  the  broad  fireplace, 
and  a  negress  was  moving  about  evidently  pre- 
173 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

paring  the  evening  meal.  A  bucket  on  a  shelf 
— a  corner  cupboard — a  safe,  and  some  splint- 
bottomed  chairs  completed  the  furniture  of  the 
room,  except,  of  course,  the  various  pots  and  pans 
that  adorned  the  mantel-piece  and  hung  about  the 
fireplace. 

This  room  was  known  as  the  kitchen,  the  one 
opposite  as  "  the  boys'  room."  It  was  a  standing 
scandal  in  Pecan,  that  though  the  Conway  men 
rode  the  finest  horses,  and  had  the  most  expensive 
fire-arms,  that  though  Milly  "put  out"  all  her 
sewing,  went  to  school  with  the  richest  girls  in 
the  town,  had  a  woman  to  cook  and  wash  and  a 
man  for  the  horses  and  cows,  yet  there  was  no 
cooking-stove  in  the  house,  no  parlor,  not  a  stick 
of  decent  furniture  nor  a  square  of  carpet.  Fur- 
ther, Milly  had  to  sleep  in  the  loft  because  her 
brothers  had  let  one  end  of  the  house  fall  down. 
And  the  Conways  listened  and  laughed  at  the 
pretensions  of  Pecan  and  stuck  to  their  kitchen. 

The  loft  about  which  they  pitied  Milly  was  the 
place  she  loved  best.  It  was  the  size  of  the  house, 
and  the  wide  dormer-windows  looking  through 
the  live-oak  in  front,  and  over  the  town,  and 
through  the  great  pecans  in  the  back,  and  over 
the  winding  river  and  sun  -  lightened  prairie, 
were  the  prettiest  windows  in  the  country.  There 
were  many  skins  on  the  floor,  given  her  by  her 
brothers,  who  were  "  mighty  hunters,"  and  every 
trip  to  town  or  city  had  brought  back  something 
for  Milly,  who,  like  a  little  queen  in  this  despised 
loft,  treasured  all  these  brothers  had  to  give. 
174 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

Her  horse  and  saddle  were  the  best  in  the  country, 
and  she  had  been  taught  to  shoot  like  a  boy.  And 
here  again  much  talk  was  caused  by  Milly's  mode 
of  life  and  training.  However,  most  people  were 
fond  of  Milly,  and  the  young  men  tried  hard  to  win 
the  liking  of  her  brothers,  no  one  but  Billy  Fleish 
daring  to  visit  her  against  the  wishes  of  her  four 
guardians;  and  dark  things  were  prophesied  if 
Tom  Conway  ever  "  got  a  chance  at  Billy."  Only 
prophesied  as  yet,  for  Pecan  had  at  last  reached 
that  point  of  slavery  where  some  good  reason 
had  to  be  given  before  one  man  was  allowed  to 
shoot  another.  So  Tom  Conway  had  to  wait  for 
a  good  reason  for  killing  Billy  Fleish,  or  run  the 
risk  of  hanging,  and  the  town  waited  and  watched 
for  results  with  some  impatience. 

Thus  matters  stood  when  Paul  Forbes  made 
his  appearance  on  the  scene.  He  was  handsome, 
he  was  young,  he  was  well  mannered ;  he  was 
different  from  any  man  that  Milly  had  ever 
known.  He  came  to  Pecan  as  school-master,  and 
Milly  was  his  brightest  scholar.  He  made  friends 
of  her  brothers,  and  coming  to  the  house  he  found 
on  a  corner  shelf  a  few  books  left  by  the  father, 
and  it  was  here  that  he  made  his  most  decided 
success.  These  books  were  the  only  sign  left  of 
James  Conway's  early  estate,  but  they  were  proof 
positive  of  money  and  education  and  that  once 
he  had  been  a  gentleman,  for  there  were  rem- 
nants of  fine  editions  among  these  books.  To 
Milly  her  father  had  shown  only  love  and  kind- 
ness ;  he  used  to  read  to  her,  he  had  helped  her 
175 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

with  her  lessons,  and  had  talked  to  her  of  his 
early  home,  and  of  the  usages  and  customs  of 
the  world  to  which  he  had  once  belonged.  It 
was  this  training  that  made  Milly  a  little  different 
from  her  neighbors,  but  this  difference  did  not 
grow  into  discontent  until  she  met  Paul  Forbes. 
Up  to  that  time  she  had  been  satisfied  by  the 
little  height  she  had  already  attained.  She  had 
been  distinguished  by  the  devotion  of  her  father 
and  brothers,  by  the  dignified  attentions  of  the 
Episcopal  missionary  who  came  once  a  month  to 
Pecan,  and  by  being  the  one  person  whom  Mrs. 
Binkin  regarded  as  being  worth  talking  to.  For 
though  Mrs.  Binkin  was  poor,  very  poor,  yet  the 
town  knew  quite  well  that  she  was  the  cleverest 
woman  in  Pecan.  All  these  little  triumphs  had 
satisfied  Milly  until  she  met  Paul  Forbes  and 
heard  him  talk  of  her  father's  books.  This  exal- 
tation of  the  father  pleased  the  children,  and 
they  recognized  in  a  dim  way  something  in  this 
man  that  stirred  in  their  own  blood,  but  which 
had  been  left  out  in  their  training.  A  sense  of 
having  been  defrauded  of  their  birthright  came 
to  them,  and  with  it  a  discontent  that  was  not 
wholesome.  Mrs.  Binkin  was  also  won  by  the 
new-comer,  and  corroborated  all  the  surmises  of 
the  Conways  as  to  their  father,  but  she  watched 
Paul  Forbes  the  more  that  he  grew  into  a  favorite, 
into  a  realized  ideal. 

Very  soon  the  gossips  had  assigned  Mr.  Forbes 
to  Milly,  and  as  soon  as  this  fact  seemed  to  be 
established,  the  young  men  who  had  been  her 
176 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

admirers  yielded  him  the  field  of  her  favor.  All, 
that  is,  except  Billy  Fleish,  who  said  that  "  Milly 
Conway  couldn't  drop  him  for  no  city  fool !"  But 
he  said  this  very  carefully,  for  he  remembered 
always  that  his  special  enemy,  Tom  Conway, 
backed  by  his  three  brothers,  was  watching  him, 
and  longing  for  some  indiscretion  on  his  part. 
In  addition  to  this  Billy  remembered  that  his 
own  people  were  all  against  him,  for  they  de- 
clared that  they  could  not  forgive  a  Fleish  for 
forgetting  the  feud  and  stooping  to  care  for  a 
Conway.  In  her  turn  Milly  was  greatly  troubled. 
Too  well  she  knew  what  it  was  she  dreaded,  for 
she  had  seen  her  eldest  brother  brought  home 
dead,  and  her  father  die,  from  wounds  received 
in  this  feud.  On  this  account  she  had  been 
kinder  to  Billy  than  was  wise,  perhaps,  hoping 
by  this  means  to  make  him  see  the  uselessness 
of  his  suit.  Forbes,  on  the  other  hand,  ignored 
the  situation ;  he  found  the  Conways  and  Mrs. 
Binkin  to  be  the  most  companionable  people  in  a 
town  that  was  only  endurable  as  affording  him  a 
support  while  he  read  law. 

So  things  stood  when  Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  candy- 
stew,  as  Pecan  called  it,  filled  the  town  with  ex- 
cited expectation.  By  a  clever  distribution  of 
hints;  by  a  lamentation  over  her  poverty  and 
inability  to  do  more  ;  by  a  mysterious  humility 
and  self-abasement,  and  by  loud  declarations  on 
the  subject  of  other  people's  successful  parties, 
Mrs.  Gollyhaw  had  made  her  party  the  town's 
talk.  Chinese  lanterns,  a  new  sensation  in  Pecan, 
M  177 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

and  a  wild  excess  of  extravagance  that  the  town 
could  scarcely  understand,  were  to  figure  at  this 
entertainment.  Besides,  there  were  whispers  of 
something  else  that  was  in  preparation,  some- 
thing else  that  Pecan  hoped  was  a  supper,  al- 
though  a  supper  in  addition  to  a  "  candy-stew  " 
was  an  unheard-of  luxury.  Yet  in  spite  of  all 
this  preparation  the  Gollyhaws  persisted  in  speak- 
ing of  the  party  in  a  deprecating  way  as  a  "  little 
entytainment,  nothin'  much,  jest  a  little  fun  for 
the  boys  an'  girls." 

And  as  the  interest  in  this  party  culminated, 
Billy  Fleish  determined  that  he  must  take  Milly 
Conway  to  this  crowning  festivity.  Forbes  and 
her  brothers  had  escorted  her  to  the  other  enter- 
tainments of  the  season ;  it  was  now  manifestly 
his  right  to  take  her  to  the  Gollyhaws'.  A  week 
before  this  evening  of  which  we  write,  Billy  had 
asked  Milly  if  she  would  go  with  him  to  the 
Gollyhaws';  and  she,  being  determined  not  to 
accept  him  as  her  escort,  and  yet  afraid  to  re- 
fuse because  of  the  feud  that  was  held  in  check 
only  so  long  as  Billy  had  hope  of  her  favor,  had 
laughed  in  a  merry,  provoking  way.  Billy  flushed 
a  little  as  she  laughed,  and  his  eyes  glittered 
dangerously. 

"  Will  you  go  or  not  ?"  he  repeated. 

Then  her  brown  eyes  flashed  the  anger  back 
into  his,  and  her  face  flushed  and  she  longed  to 
defy  him ;  but  that  would  bring  danger  to  lives 
far  dearer  than  her  own,  so  she  turned  away,  an- 
swering quietly,  "  If  I  go,  Billy,  I'll  go  with  Tom." 
178 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  Billy  left 
her,  and  her  heart  was  light  that  once  more  the 
trouble  had  been  tided  over.  And  she  gave 
Paul  Forbes  the  same  answer  when  the  next  day 
he  asked  her  the  same  question,  but  her  voice 
had  a  different  tone  in  it,  and  her  eyes  betrayed 
that  she  was  sorry.  Beautiful  eyes,  Forbes 
thought  them,  like  clear  water  running  over 
fallen  leaves.  He  had  seen  this  effect  often  in 
mountain  streams,  when  the  autumn  leaves, 
caught  in  the  rocks  and  roots,  made  a  brown 
bed  for  the  sparkling  water.  Beautiful  eyes, 
and  her  voice  was  like  the  sound  of  water,  too ; 
not  the  ripple  and  gurgle  of  the  stream  as  it 
splashed  over  the  stones,  but  like  the  deep  under- 
tone that  the  attentive  listener  hears. 

She  was  surely  a  remarkable  girl,  all  things 
considered;  and  now  on  the  afternoon  of  Mrs. 
Gollyhaw's  candy-stew,  her  affairs  had  made  a 
great  stride.  Once  more  Billy  had  been  to  see 
her,  and  the  interview  had  been  stormy;  and 
when  Mrs.  Binkin,  full  of  anxiety  raised  by  'Reely 
Fleish's  words,  made  her  way  to  the  Conways', 
Milly  was  truly  glad  to  see  her.  The  quieter 
brothers  were  off  on  a  "  drive,"  and  Milly  knew 
that  Tom  was  too  quick-tempered  to  be  told  what 
Billy  had  said  that  afternoon,  so  Mrs.  Binkin 
coming  in  just  then  seemed  specially  sent;  and 
when,  after  hearing  from  Judy,  the  cook,  that  the 
girl  was  in  the  loft,  she  called  up,  the  answer 
came  quickly  and  cheerily  from  above,  and  a 
trap-door  that  shut  the  lower  world  from  Milly's 
179 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

domain  was  lifted.  As  Mrs.  Binkin  emerged 
from  the  lower  story,  two  little  brown  hands 
were  stretched  out  in  welcome,  little  Mary  was 
greeted  with  a  rush  and  deposited  in  a  hammock 
that  hung  in  a  corner,  and  the  most  comfortable 
chair  was  pulled  forward  for  Mrs.  Binkin. 

"You  are  just  in  time  to  hear  about  Billy," 
Milly  began,  as  she  knelt  on  the  floor  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Binkin.  "  He  asked  me  the  other  day  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  with  him,  and  I  told  him  that  I 
was  going  with  Tom,  and  I  told  Mr.  Forbes  the 
same  thing,"  a  faint  flush  coming  on  her  cheek ; 
"  but  this  evening  Billy  came  again,  and  said  that 
he  would  go  to  the  ranch  if  I  did  not  go  with 
him,  and  I  said  again  that  I  was  going  with 
Tom ;  you  would  not  believe  how  angry  he  got," 
pushing  the  waving  hair  back  from  her  forehead. 
"Then  he  said,  'Will  you  marry  me  or  not,  Milly 
Conway,or  will  you  marry  that  damned  Forbes?' 
and  he  spoke  so  loud  that  Judy  came  and  stood 
in  the  doorway.  He  did  not  see  her,  but  when 
she  said,  '  Marse  Tom's  in  the  back  yard/  you 
should  have  seen  Billy  jump  !  It  was  not  true," 
the  girl  added,  simply,  "and  I  was  not  so  much 
afraid  as  that,  but  it  frightened  Billy,  and  he 
said, '  Tell  her  to  go  away,  Milly ;  you  know  I  won't 
hurt  you/  So  Judy  went ;  but  she  didn't  go  far. 
Then  Billy  said  again,  'Will  you  marry  me?' " 

"  Didn't  you  knock  him,  Milly  ?"  cried  little 
Mary,  looking  over  the  side  of  the  hammock. 

Milly  laughed.  "  Of  course  not,"  she  said,  "  but 
he  looked  as  if  I  had  when  I  said  '  No.'  You 

180 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

should  have  seen  him,  Mrs.  Binkin — oh,  he  looked 
dreadful  as  he  jumped  up ;  then  he  said,  *  Then  you 
shall  never  marry,  Milly  Con  way !'  and  went  away." 

Mrs.  Binkin  sat  silent.  Things  had  gone  much 
further  than  she  had  thought,  and  she  was  not 
quite  sure  what  her  best  course  would  be.  She 
had  never  intended  to  tell  Milly  of  Billy's  threat, 
revealed  by  his  sister  'Reely,  but  now  she  felt 
more  than  ever  that  Tom  must  be  warned.  "  Billy 
Fleish  is  a  coward,"  she  said,  slowly,  "and  he 
means  some  kind  of  secret  mischief." 

"I'm  afraid  to  tell  Tom,"  Milly  said,  anxiously, 
"and  the  other  boys  won't  be  home  for  a  week  or 
more." 

Mrs.  Binkin  shook  her  head.  "  Tom's  danger- 
ous," she  said,  "  and  Billy  told  me  at  the  gate 
that  he  was  going  to  the  ranch  right  now." 

"Do  you  believe  him?" 

In  her  heart  Mrs.  Binkin  was  doubtful,  but  it 
was  better  that  Milly  should  believe  it,  and,  taking 
up  her  old  sun-bonnet,  she  answered,  slowly,  "  He 
had  his  blankets  with  him  ;  all  the  same,  I'm  glad 
that  you're  going  with  Tom ;  but  what  are  you 
going  to  wear  ?" 

"Anything — anything's  good  enough  for  the 
Gollyhaws."  Then  the  girl  smoothed  the  strag- 
gling black  hair  back  from  Mrs.  Binkin's  fore- 
head. "  I  wish  you  and  Mary  could  come  and 
live  with  me,"  she  said. 

The  elder  woman's  face  softened,  her  fierce  eyes 
grew  wistful,  and  a  faint  flush  came  on  her  sunken 
cheeks.  "You'll  not  be  here  long,"  she  answered. 

181 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

"  You'll  be  marrying  Mr.  Forbes,"  little  Mary 
suggested. 

Milly  shook  her  head,  and  the  clear  brown  eyes 
had  a  troubled  look  in  them.  "I'll  never  marry," 
she  said.  "  I'll  never  marry ;  I'll  live  here  always 
with  the  boys." 

There  was  a  little  falling  cadence  in  her  voice, 
and  instantly  there  flashed  into  Mrs.  Binkin's 
heart  a  sudden  suspicion  against  Forbes,  and  with 
it  a  swift,  fierce  anger.  Was  he  playing  with  this 
fair  life?  Was  he  daring  to  do  such  a  thing? 
And  she  went  away  hastily  down  the  rough  ladder, 
not  trusting  herself  to  speak  further  with  the  girl ; 
but  at  the  gate  she  paused.  "  I'll  go  to  the  Golly- 
haws'  myself,  Milly,"  she  called  back,"  Mary  and  I." 

Yes,  she  would  put  aside  the  habits  of  years 
and  go  to  the  party ;  it  would  be  her  only  chance 
to  see  Tom  Conway,  and,  besides,  Milly  might 
need  her.  But  now,  in  her  sudden  suspicion  of 
Forbes,  she  felt  almost  tempted  not  to  rouse 
Tom  Conway,  but  to  let  things  take  their  course, 
for  perhaps  it  was  Forbes's  life  that  Billy  threat- 
ened. Perhaps — but  as  Milly  had  positively  re- 
fused Billy,  all  barriers  against  the  renewal  of 
the  feud  were  now  removed;  indeed,  a  further 
cause  for  anger  had  been  added,  and  she  felt  that 
Tom's  life  was  in  danger.  What  would  be  best? 
What  course  would  be  safest  for  the  Conways  ? 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 
II 

"  Look  in  my  face  ;  my  name  is  Might-have-been  ; 
I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell ; 
Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell, 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam- fretted  feet  between." 

The  Gollyhaws'  house  seemed  transformed ; 
its  own  mistress  could  scarcely  recognize  it.  Its 
best  parlor,  with  its  gorgeous  carpet,  its  chromos, 
its  overflowing  lambrequins,  its  staring  lamp 
that  went  by  machinery,  its  china  vases  and 
photograph  albums,  was  thrown  open.  The 
"  sittin'  room,"  with  its  rattling  old  piano,  bed, 
wardrobe,  and  the  odds  and  ends  of  furniture — a 
great  fall  from  the  parlor — was  also  thrown  open. 
Beyond  this  was  the  best  bedroom,  where  the 
glory  was  resumed,  and  there  were  more  lambre- 
quins and  tidies  and  china  vases.  The  broad 
back  piazza  was  lighted  with  a  few  of  the  much- 
talked-of  lanterns,  and  was  empty  save  for  two 
chairs  placed  mysteriously  in  the  shadow.  In 
the  back  yard,  under  some  trees,  there  were  more 
Chinese  lanterns,  and  tables  amply  provided  with 
empty  plates  and  dishes  and  pans  of  flour  for 
the  candy-pulling.  All  was  opened  to  the  pub- 
lic— all  except  the  dining-room ;  that  seemed  to 
have  vanished.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  glory, 
Mrs.  Gollyhaw,  in  a  rattling  black  silk,  that  was 
painfully  shiny,  stood  brimming  over  with  delight. 

"  This  entytainment  '11  show  this  town  w'at's 
w'at,"  she  soliloquized,  as  she  sat  down  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  best  chair  of  the  best  parlor  and 
183 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

looked  about  her ;  but  only  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  rose  and  went  through  an  open  door  to 
where  the  lanterns  made  a  mystery  of  the  back 
piazza,  and  from  this  she  passed  on  to  where  a 
closed  door  with  an  unlighted  lantern  above  it 
revealed  the  missing  dining-room.  She  paused 
a  moment,  drawing  a  long  breath,  then  turning 
the  latch  softly,  stepped  in  on  her  toes,  as  if  afraid 
of  the  unwonted  grandeur  she  knew  was  within. 
She  closed  the  door  carefully  before  she  looked  ; 
then,  with  clasped  hands,  turned  to  view  the  pict- 
ure spread  before  her.  A  long,  narrow,  high 
table,  made  longer  by  other  tables  of  different 
heights,  filled  the  room.  There  were  lamps — 
glass  lamps  with  red  flannels  in  the  bowls — at 
equal  distances  up  and  down  the  table.  In  the 
centre  there  was  a  wooden  stand,  all  covered 
and  wrapped  in  fringed  tissue-paper,  blue  and 
pink  and  purple,  and  on  this  stand  were  teacups 
full  of  custard.  All  up  and  down  the  table  were 
stone  -  china  plates  turned  down,  and  on  each 
plate  there  was  one  apple,  one  orange,  and  one 
banana.  Inside  this  phalanx,  drawn  up  in  rows, 
were  pies  in  tin  plates,  cakes,  and  little  piles  of 
candies,  nuts,  and  raisins.  Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  heart 
was  full  —  there  never  had  been  such  a  table 
spread  in  Pecan  !  It  is  true  the  room  was  barren, 
the  floor  was  bare,  the  thinly  plastered  walls 
which  showed  the  laths  like  ribs  were  not  even 
whitewashed ;  the  low  wooden  ceiling,  darkened 
by  the  smoke  and  flies  of  many  years,  was  un- 
painted  ;  the  great  fireplace,  with  its  two  small 
184 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

pieces  of  railroad  iron  for  andirons,  was  full  of 
ashes  ;  the  mantel-shelf  was  of  rough  boards ; 
the  back  door  into  the  kitchen  was  battened,  with 
an  iron  hook  and  staple  for  fastening,  and  the 
low  windows  on  each  side  of  the  room  curtainless. 

All  this  was  unlovely,  but  passed  unnoticed, 
because  it  was  the  custom  in  Pecan.  Dining- 
rooms  were  only  places  to  eat  in ;  they  required 
only  tables  and  chairs  and  a  safe ;  they  must  be 
near  the  kitchen — for  the  rest,  people  could  look 
on  the  table,  and  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  inner 
man.  And  now  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  looked  on  the 
table  only,  and  her  glory  was  complete.  Truly 
Pecan  had  never  seen  such  a  "dressed  table." 

"  There's  ten  lemon-pies,"  she  murmured,  keep- 
ing tally  on  her  stumpy  fingers,  "  an'  ten  apple- 
pies,  an'  twenty  merlasses-pies — enough  pies,  I 
think,"  and  she  paused  to  push  a  plate  of  cake  to 
a  more  suitable  spot ;  u  an'  six  dozen  oranges," 
she  resumed,  "  an'  six  dozen  apples,  an'  fo'  dozen 
bernannys — enough  fruit,  in  all  conscience  ;  then 
two  dollars'  worth  of  candy  an'  the  same  of  ree- 
sins,  and  pecans  no  end ;  an'  fifty  cents'  worth  of 
cheese,  and  five  dozen  cups  of  custard,  an'  cakes 
for  a  army !"  She  stood  still  and  clasped  her 
hands,  while  a  dreamy  look  came  over  her  face. 
"  Yes,  Gollyhaw's  right,"  she  said,  under  her 
breath,  "this  party  '11  cost  good  twenty  dollars 
outside  Lorena-Dora's  dress,  for  the  music-man 
from  Prairieville  will  cost  two  dollars."  Just 
here  there  came  a  rattling  at  the  kitchen  door 
that  caused  the  hook  to  jump  in  the  staple. 
185 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

"All  right!"  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  called,  and  made 
her  way  as  fast  as  she  was  able  to  that  end  of 
the  room  ;  quickly  she  lifted  the  hook,  and  the 
door  falling  back,  as  if  its  hinges  were  weak,  a 
great  negro  woman  came  in  sideways.  She  was 
draggled  and  dirty,  her  wool,  twisted  into  innu- 
merable small  queues  wrapped  with  white  cord, 
stood  off  from  her  head  at  every  angle,  her  sleeves 
were  rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  in  each  hand 
she  carried  a  painted  pine  bucket. 

"  The  lemmynade,"  she  said,  briefly,  pausing 
and  facing  Mrs.  Gollyhaw. 

"  Sure-er-nough  !"  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  said,  as  if 
overwhelmed  with  pleased  surprise  ;  and  taking 
the  tin  dipper  that  reposed  in  one  of  the  buckets 
she  tasted  the  fluid  critically,  smacking  her  lips. 
"  That's  good,  Jinny,"  she  went  on,  putting  back 
the  dipper,  and  wiping  her  lips  with  her  forefinger 
and  thumb,  "  an  set  'em  on  the  shelf  at  the  end 
of  the  gall'ry.  Is  Uncle  Green  come?" 

"  Not  yit,"  and  Jinny  preceded  her  mistress 
from  the  room ;  "  but  thet  new  nigger  from 
Prairieville's  in  the  kitchen." 

Mrs.  Gollyhaw  bridled  a  little  and  smiled  a 
sinister  smile;  for  this  "new  nigger,"  as  Jinny 
called  him,  was  a  fifer,  who  had  come  to  aid  in 
the  festivities.  "  Uncle  Green,"  the  local  fiddler, 
had  lived  in  Pecan  from  time  immemorial,  and 
as  far  back  as  any  one  could  remember  he  had 
played  at  every  dance  within  a  radius  of  forty 
miles — that  is,  until  a  "revival"  had  banished 
dancing.  For  there  were  religious  as  well  as 
186 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

social  feuds  in  Pecan,  the  only  difference  being 
that  the  religious  feuds,  existing  among  the 
women  solely,  were  not  deadly,  but  only  unholy 
and  venomous.  The  war  raged  more  particularly 
at  this  time  between  the  Presbyterians  and  the 
Episcopalians  who  had  not  heeded  the  "Union 
revival,"  and  the  war-cry  was  "  dancing."  As  the 
Baptists  had  agreed  with  the  Episcopalians  as  to 
the  harmlessness  of  dancing,  the  Presbyterian 
party  felt  in  a  rather  depressed  condition.  The 
Gollyhaws  and  the  Browns  were  the  chief  Epis- 
copalians in  the  town,  and  after  them  the  Con- 
ways  and  Mrs.  Binkin.  Over  Mr.  Forbes  there 
had  been  a  slight  skirmish,  but  he  took  no  part 
in  the  quarrel,  and  divided  his  favors  equally  be- 
tween all  the  places  of  worship.  On  this  occasion, 
Mrs.  Gollyhaw,  without  saying  a  word  even  to 
her  dearest  rival,  Mrs.  Brown,  had  determined 
to  bring  this  question  to  an  issue  by  making 
dancing  one  of  the  features  of  the  evening,  and 
so  had  sent  to  Prairieville  for  the  fifer.  One  of 
her  reasons  for  keeping  this  plan  a  secret  was 
that  the  Presbyterian  young  women  would  not 
come  if  they  heard  of  the  dancing.  They  re- 
fused to  countenance  dancing,  and  their  Chris- 
tian sisters,  filled  with  unsanctified  acumen,  said 
plainly  that  "  if  Brother  Perkins  would  only  marry, 
his  congregation  would  quit  all  sich  nonsense." 
Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  plan  for  trapping  the  Presby- 
terians was  this  :  the  young  people  were  to  be 
engaged  in  playing  "  Skiptummerlou,"  which 
being  interpreted  means  "  Skip-to-my-Lou,"  a 
187 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

game  strangely  like  a  quadrille ;  while  this  was 
in  progress  the  fiddler  and  the  fifer  were  to  strike 
in  with  music  to  suit  the  refrain  sung  during  the 
game,  and  thus  turn  it  into  a  dance.  Of  course, 
the  "  'Piscopals  "  and  the  Baptists  would  go  on, 
and  the  Methodists  would  not  leave  the  majority, 
but  what  would  the  Presbyterians  do  ? 

"They  can't  go  home  'cause  the  boys  won't  take 
'em,"  Lorena-Dora  had  said,  in  great  glee,  "an' 
they'll  have  to  set  out  the  evenin'."  So  Mrs.Golly- 
haw  kept  the  fifer  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  two 
chairs  arranged  for  these  musicians  were  put  in  a 
dim  but  accessible  corner  of  the  piazza. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Mrs.  Gollyhaw 
yearned  for  this  triumphant  moment,  and  now 
that  everything  was  in  readiness,  and  the  hour 
named  in  her  invitations  passed,  she  became 
impatient.  Mr.  Gollyhaw  was  detained  at  the 
"sto"';  but  Lorena-Dora  should  be  down  by  this 
time,  and  she  paused  in  her  walk  to  call  up  the 
stairs. 

"  I'm  acomin',  Mar,"  was  answered  from  above, 
and  a  young  woman  very  soon  followed  the  voice, 
entering  the  parlor  with  an  assured  swing  that 
caused  her  mother's  eyes  to  shine  with  pride. 

"  You  surely  do  look  stylish,  Lorena-Dora,"  she 
said,  walking  slowly  around  her  daughter,  "  and 
nobody  kin  deny  it  if  they  do  come  from  Jones- 
borough." 

The  young  woman  tossed  her  head.  "  I'm  not 
'fraid  of  no  Mary-Lou  Johnson,"  she  answered, 
"and  'Mandy  Brown's  hardly  got  good  sense  if 
188 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

she  is  away  for  her  education.  Lawsy  me,  the 
boys  likes  you  just  as  well  if  you  never  go  to 
school,  and  Mr.  Forbes  knows  it  all,  anyhow." 

"  He  is  mighty  smart,"  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  admitted, 
in  a  regretful  way,  for  she  was  convinced  that 
Lorena-Dora  could  have  won  him  if  she  had 
chosen.  Just  at  this  moment  the  latch  of  the 
front  gate  clicked,  and  voices  and  steps  were 
heard  approaching  the  house.  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  rose 
hastily,  while  Lorena-Dora,  instantly  beginning  to 
hum  a  little  tune,  sauntered  carelessly  into  the  hall. 

"  Hardy-hardy-hardy  !"  came  from  the  outer 
darkness  in  stentorian  tones,  causing  the  young 
hostess  to  start  and  run  gayly  towards  the  front 
door. 

"  Hardy  yourself,"  she  cried,  "an1  see  how  you 
like  it." 

"  Mighty  well,  you  bet,"  and  a  stout  man  with 
a  wizened  wife  on  his  arm  stamped  up  on  the 
front  porch,  and  putting  down  an  ill-smelling  lan- 
tern, held  out  both  hands  in  greeting ;  Lorena- 
Dora  put  hers  in  them  confidingly,  with  a  coy 

"  Lawsy  me,  Mr.  Brown  !" — then  Mrs.  Gollyhaw 
came  into  the  hall. 

"  How  fine  you  are,"  Mr.  Brown  went  on  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  as  he  followed  the  ladies  into  the 
best  bedroom  where  Mrs.  Brown  was  to  "  lay  her 
things." 

"  Nothin'  more'n  common,"  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  an- 
swered, with  proud  humility,  glad  to  make  this 
special  speech  to  this  guest,  who  was  Mr.  Dave 
Brown,  son  of  "old  Dave,"  one  of  the  original 
189 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

settlers,  and  Pecan's  most  skilful  lawyer.  "  I  am 
'fraid  'Mandy  and  Miss  Johnson  '11  be  very  fash'- 
nubble,"  Mrs.  Brown  suggested ;  "  I  reckin  eight 
o'clock  '11  jist  see  'em  startin'." 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  answered,  "  when  I  was 
young  we  went  early,  and  we  come  home  early 
— but  these  days — " 

"  The  style's  changed,  Mar,"  her  daughter  inter- 
rupted, with  decision,  "  an'  I  told  you  so  befo'  you 
asked  folks  to  come  at  *  chicken-roost  time.'" 

"  Yes,  you  did,"  the  mother  answered,  "  an'  you 
do  keep  up  with  the  style,  if  you  do  live  in  Pecan." 

"  Pecan's  as  good  as  any  place,"  Mr.  Brown  as- 
serted, "an'  we've  got  the  prettiest  girls  in  the 
country." 

"  Thet's  so,"  and  Lorena-Dora  flourished  back 
into  the  hall  as  another  knock  was  heard. 

After  this  the  guests  came  thick  and  fast ;  all 
the  clan  of  Browns  and  Fleishes,  except  Billy,  who 
they  said  had  gone  to  the  ranch.  Everybody  who 
was  anybody  in  Pecan  was  there,  and  every  kind 
of  dress  except  calico,  and  every  kind  of  coat  ex- 
cept a  dress-coat.  The  Binkin  girls  arrived  in 
gorgeous  plaid  gowns,  Mrs.  Binkin  in  a  black 
alpaca  that  was  only  a  little  less  straight  than  her 
limp  black  calico — little  Mary  in  a  pitifully  out- 
grown white  dress.  Milly  Conway  came  in  a  scar- 
let jacket  and  full  black  skirt  that  caused  'Reely 
Fleish  to  remark,  "  She's  wore  that  for  a  genera- 
tion," and  Mr.  Brown  to  retort,  "  All  the  same, 
she's  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room,"  and  she  was. 
She  and  Tom  were  a  picture  as  they  came  in  ;  she 

TQO 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

slight  and  dark,  a  tinge  of  color  in  her  cheeks,  her 
wavy  hair  a  little  ruffled  by  the  wind,  her  scarlet 
lips  just  breaking  into  a  smile,  showing  her  little 
white  teeth  ;  and  her  brother,  tall  and  strong 
and  fair,  with  long  yellow  hair  brushed  straight 
back,  and  a  great  mustache  that  nearly  touched 
his  shoulders.  Tom  was  a  dandy  in  his  way  ;  he 
wore  no  coat,  he  never  would,  but  his  dark  flannel 
shirt  was  laced  up  in  front  with  a  scarlet  silk  cord  ; 
the  boots  that  came  above  his  knees  were  the 
finest,  and  about  his  waist  there  was  a  scarlet 
scarf  tied  in  Mexican  fashion.  The  butt  of  the 
pistol  which  projected  from  his  hip-pocket  was  in- 
laid with  silver  ;  his  "  sweetheart "  he  called  it, 
and  never  moved  without  it.  He  was  a  "  cow-boy," 
he  said,  and  not  a  town  man,  and  coats  were  an 
abomination.  He  was  the  best  dancer  in  all 
that  country,  the  most  daring  rider,  the  most  un- 
failing shot — he  did  not  drink,  but  he  took  life  too 
carelessly  ever  to  be  a  rich  man.  He  was  a  local 
hero,  in  short,  and  half  of  the  girls  in  Pecan  had 
at  one  time  or  another  felt  a  weakness  for  Tom 
Conway.  He  nodded  gayly  as  he  came  into  the 
room,  then  turned  to  see  what  was  meant  by  the 
hush  that  had  fallen  on  the  company.  The  cause 
was  not  far  to  seek,  for  in  the  doorway  stood  old 
Mrs.  Brown,  as  she  was  called,  a  portentous  mass 
of  humanity,  and  behind  her,  Amanda,  her 
daughter,  and  the  famed  Miss  Johnson.  Mrs. 
Brown  was  in  black  silk  that  creaked  like  a  new 
shoe  with  every  breath  of  the  occupant.  'Mandy, 
a  limp  edition  of  her  mother,  was  arrayed  in  blue 
191 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

silk,  and  Miss  Johnson,  a  languid  blonde,  brought 
up  the  rear  in  a  pink  and  garnet  satin.  Pecan 
stood  silent ;  and  Mrs.  Brown,  proud  to  treat  this 
new  wonder  with  motherly  patronage,  introduced 
the  young  women  as  "my  girls,"  and  excused  their 
lateness  on  the  plea  of  their  Jonesborough  habits. 
Besides,  she  explained,  they  had  had  some  dif- 
ficulty in  deciding  what  to  wear,  as  they  wanted 
to  "  save  their  best  clothes  for  the  real  big  party 
'Mandy's  to  have."  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  grew  very  red 
in  the  face  when  she  heard  this  —  had  she  been 
outwitted  after  all  ?  Was  her  effort  to  be  eclipsed 
— this  effort  that  she  had  intended  should  be  an 
epoch  in  the  history  of  Pecan  ?  But  she  answered, 
pluckily  : 

"  Yes,  you  oughter  give  one  real  big  party ; 
you're  rich  enough  to  do  it.  For  me,"  smiling 
deprecatingly,  "  I  can't  do  no  better'n  a  candy- 
stew  ;"  then  she  walked  away,  feeling  some  satis- 
faction at  having  disparaged  the  past  entertain- 
ments of  the  Browns,  and  because  she  had  made 
the  plain  statement  that  her  own  party  was  far 
below  her  ideal.  The  grandeur  of  the  Brown 
party  cast  a  gloom  over  the  company  for  a  while, 
and  many  a  woman  touched  her  cheap  frock  and 
felt  that  the  glory  of  the  evening  had  faded.  Lo- 
rena-Dora,  however,  rose  to  the  occasion  gallantly, 
and  by  a  clever  thought  brought  the  rich  and 
poor  ends  of  her  party  together  by  whispering  to 
Mrs.  Brown  of  the  little  trap  that  had  been  laid 
for  the  unwary  Presbyterian  sisters.  Mrs.  Brown 
took  in  the  situation  instantly,  and  loudly  pro- 

192 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

posed  that  the  young  people  should  play  "  Skip- 
to-my-Lou."  All  the  company  were  made  happy 
by  her  condescending  persuasions,  and  immedi- 
ately consented  to  her  proposal.  She  called  Tom 
Conway  to  lead  out  Miss  Johnson  ;  sent  Dave 
Brown  after  Milly  ;  Lorena-Dora  was  led  to  the 
front  by  Bob  Fleish  ;  the  Binkin  girls  came  noi- 
sily forward,  determined  to  be  conspicuous.  Paul 
Forbes  seldom  joined  in  these  games,  and  stood 
now  with  folded  arms  behind  Mrs.  Binkin's  chair, 
watching  the  great  ring  form  on  the  broad  piazza. 
Presently  all  was  ready  except  the  odd  man  for 
the  middle  of  the  ring ;  this  caused  a  moment's 
pause,  when  Mr.  Gollyhaw  himself,  in  all  the  glory 
of  his  "  sto'  clothes,"  dashed  into  the  ring : 

"  I'll  be  odd,  Johnny,"  he  said  ;  "  but  not  for 
long;"  and  stamping  his  feet  and  clapping  his 
hands,  he  raised  the  song : 

" '  I  wanter  pardner, 

Skiptummerlou — 
I  wanter  pardner, 

Skiptummerlou — 
I  wanter  pardner, 

Skiptummerlou — 
Skiptummerlou,  my  darlinV  " 

Every  voice  took  up  the  refrain,  and  Mr.  Gol- 
lyhaw curvetted  and  skipped  through  the  verse, 
ending  by  turning  Milly  Conway  violently,  and 
leaving  Dave  Brown  as  odd  man.  But  Dave  was 
not  daunted,  and  taking  steps  that  seemed  be- 
yond mortal  legs,  he  struck  up  the  second  verse  : 
N  193 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

"  I'll  git  another  one, 

Skiptummerlou — 
I'll  git  another  one, 

Skiptummerlou — 
I'll  git  another  one 

Prettier  than  t'other  one, 
Skiptummerlou,  my  darlin',' " 

ending  by  turning  Miss  Johnson  and  leaving  Tom 
Conway  free.  The  singing  went  on  to  the  third 
verse,  but  in  an  absorbed,  mechanical  way,  for 
Tom's  dancing  was  watched  intently — it  was  a 
thing  Pecan  was  proud  of,  and  they  wondered  if 
Miss  Johnson  had  ever  seen  better. 

'"  Now  we'll  be  married, 

Skiptummerlou — 
Now  we'll  be  married, 

Skiptummerlou — 
Now  we'll  be  married, 

Skiptummerlou — 
Skiptummerlou,  my  darlin'."' 

And  Tom,  with  a  last  flourish,  stopped  in  front 
of  Lorena-Dora.  There  was  a  shout  of  applause ; 
then  the  first  verse  was  taken  up  again,  and  the 
game  became  more  noisy,  as  the  older  people 
standing  outside  the  circle  cheered  on  the  play- 
ers. Mrs.  Binkin,  who  sat  rather  withdrawn  in  a 
corner,  now  and  then  answering  Forbes,  now  and 
then  answering  Mary,  felt  as  in  a  dream.  This 
funny  old  game,  with  its  merry  tune  and  nonsen- 
sical words,  was  playing  a  cruel  trick  with  her. 
She  heard  other  voices  singing  and  other  foot- 
194 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

steps  on  the  floor ;  loving  eyes  looked  into  hers, 
and  strong  hands  clasped  her  own  that  were  so 
weary  !  She  looked  down  on  them  as  they  lay  in 
her  lap — poor  old  hands  that  still  went  empty  of 
a  blessing.  On  and  on  the  game  went,  while  her 
heart  grew  bitter  with  memories  that  crowded 
upon  her.  Suddenly  her  thoughts  rushed  back 
to  the  present,  in  which  Billy  Fleish  had  dared  to 
threaten  Milly!  Her  pulses  bounded,  and  the 
blood  leaped  in  her  veins  as  she  reached  a  quick 
decision.  "  Yes,  she  would  tell  Tom  Conway." 
At  this  moment  Forbes  touched  her,  saying, 
"  This  is  a  new  feature."  She  looked  up  with  a 
start,  and  there  beyond  the  group  of  old  people 
she  saw  the  musicians  seated.  Immediately  the 
shrill  fife  and  the  sharp  fiddle  took  up  the  tune. 
There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  a  shout  of 
laughter  as  Dave  Brown  rushed  across  the  circle 
and  turned  Miss  Fleish — Miss  Fleish,  who  was  the 
most  rigid  non-dancer  of  all  Mr.  Perkins's  flock  ! 
Not  realizing  the  situation,  'Reely  danced  mer- 
rily for  a  turn  or  two,  until  a  voice  called  out, 
mockingly,  "  Miss  'Reely  dancin' !"  and  she  saw 
her  Presbyterian  sisters  fleeing  from  the  piazza. 
In  vain  she  tried  to  stop ;  Dave  Brown  held  her 
hands  firmly,  turning  her  round  and  round,  and 
Tom  Conway,  waving  a  large  fan,  danced  after 
them. 

Mrs.   Binkin  sprang  up.     As  things  stood,   it 

was  a   dangerous   joke   for   Tom    Conway,  and 

crossing  quickly  to  the  musicians   she  laid   her 

hand  on  Uncle  Green's  fiddle,  causing  the  fifer  to 

195 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

stop  in  amazement.  In  a  moment  all  was  still, 
and  'Reely  left  the  piazza  in  a  fury  that  fell  in- 
discriminately on  all  around  her.  There  was 
great  confusion,  but  Miss  Fleish  was  not  to  be 
placated,  and  left  the  house  immediately,  drag- 
ging the  reluctant  Bob  with  her.  The  other  mem- 
bers of  Mr.  Perkins's  flock  contented  themselves 
with  retiring  to  the  parlor,  where  they  waited 
for  the  candy,  and  the  game  on  the  piazza,  turn- 
ing into  a  regular  "  swing-corner  "  quadrille,  went 
on  fast  and  furious. 

On  and  on,  while  Mrs.  Binkin  waited — waited 
now  in  fear  and  trembling,  for  'Reely  Fleish  had 
gone  home  so  angry  that  if  Billy  had  not  gone 
to  the  ranch  anything  might  happen  !  A  shot 
from  out  the  darkness  was  so  easy,  and  Tom  was 
such  a  good  mark  in  the  midst  of  the  merry- 
makers. Such  things  had  happened,  and  she 
looked  out  into  the  shadows  with  burning  eyes. 
Now  Tom  must  be  warned. 

The  dance  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  the  dan- 
cers, heated  and  breathless,  went  in  search  of  some- 
thing cool — crowding  about  the  buckets  of  lemon- 
ade, and  squabbling  merrily  over  the  one  dipper. 
It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Binkin  led  Tom  Conway 
aside.  "  'Reely  Fleish  told  me  to-day,"  she  be- 
gan, abruptly,  "  that  Billy  threatened  that  some 
one  would  be  missing  in  the  morning  if  Milly 
didn't  pome  herewith  him  " — she  paused  to  catch 
her  breath — "  and  she  came  with  you." 

"  Well,"  the  young  man  said,  curtly,  fastening 
his  gray-blue  eyes  on  hers  relentlessly — "  well  ?" 
196 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

Meeting  the  look,  the  woman  trembled,  while  a 
bloody  mist  seemed  to  come  between  them.  She 
put  out  her  hand  against  a  post  to  steady  herself. 
"  That's  enough,"  she  whispered,  turning  her  face 
away.  "  I  only  warned  you  to  save  you." 

Tom  turned  on  her  quickly.  "  Enough  ?"  he 
repeated,  in  a  sharp,  low  voice  ;  "  you're  right — it's 
enough  to  make  Billy  Fleish  the  missing  man." 
Then  he  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  Mrs.  Binkin's 
shoulder.  "  But  that's  not  all,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
know  it,  and  you  needn't  think  that  you've  done 
the  mischief,  for  it's  been  a  toss-up  for  many  a 
day  which  should  get  the  other.  I've  been  wait- 
ing for  a  good  reason  ;  Billy's  been  waiting  for  a 
back-shot.  Say  on." 

It  was  all  true  ;  and  Mrs.  Binkin  knew,  as  sure- 
ly as  she  knew  anything,  that  one  or  the  other  of 
them  would  be  found  dead  in  the  chaparral  some 
day,  with  a  bullet  through  his  body.  And  better 
Billy  Fleish  than  Tom.  She  had  stopped  her 
lover  from  bloodshed  by  keeping  the  story  of  her 
wrongs  untold  until  he  lay  dying  by  a  shot  from 
an  unknown  hand  ;  so  the  people  said,  but  she 
knew  that  a  Fleish  had  fired  the  shot,  for  her 
drunken  husband  had  betrayed  his  friend.  And 
Jack  Conway,  the  son,  had  gone  by  the  same 
hand ;  and  now,  must  she  still  stay  the  Conways 
when  her  efforts  had  only  served  to  deliver  them 
into  the  hands  of  their  enemies  ?  According  to 
the  logic  of  feuds,  one  or  the  other  must  go,  and 
now  it  seemed  the  Fleishes'  turn.  "  Billy  came  to 
Milly  this  evening,"  she  began,  in  a  low  voice, 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

without  one  mitigating  suggestion — "  Billy  came 
and  asked  Milly  to  marry  him." 

"  Oh  !" 

"  And  when  Milly  said  '  No,'  he  said,  '  Then  you 
sha'n't  marry  nobody,  Milly  Conway,'  and  went 
off.  I  met  him  at  the  gate  as  he  came  out,  and 
he  said  he  was  going  to  the  ranch.  But  I  don't 
trust  him,  and  so  I  warn  you."  Like  one  of  the 
Fates,  she  had  clipped  the  thread  of  life  without 
a  sigh  ;  had  told  the  fatal  story  without  a  quiver 
in  her  voice. 

Tom  stood  quite  still  with  his  hands  thrust 
deep  into  his  pockets,  and  his  stern  white  face 
looking  out  into  the  darkness.  Straight  and 
strong  and  tall  above  the  common  was  the  man 
revealed  in  the  half-light  that  fell  on  his  yellow 
hair,  on  his  straight,  clear-cut  features,  on  his 
square,  dimple-cleft  chin.  The  woman  drew  a 
long  breath  that  hissed  between  her  teeth ;  and 
while  she  looked,  the  discordant  voice  of  her 
eldest  daughter  broke  on  her  dream :  "  Mar, 
ain't  you  never  goin'  to  let  Tom  come?" 

"Yes,"  Tom  answered,  quickly,  "but  I  want 
your  mother  a  little  longer,"  and  he  led  the  way 
through  the  hall,  taking  his  hat  as  he  went,  to 
the  front  porch  ;  here  he  paused  in  the  shadow. 
"  Will  you  stay  here  as  long  as  Milly  stays  ?"  he 
asked,  "  and  if  I  don't  come  back  in  time  will 
you  go  home  and  stay  with  her  ?  You  know  the 
boys  are  off." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Binkin  answered. 

"And  if  Billy  comes  here,"  he  went  on,  "tell 
198 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

him  that  if  he  dares  to  speak  to  Milly,  more  than 
one  Fleish  will  go." 

"  Billy's  at  the  ranch." 

"  Maybe,  and  maybe  not,  but  I'm  goin'  to  see. 
If  I  miss  him,  and  he  come's  here,  you  tell  him 
what  I  say,  and  I  won't  be  far  behind  him."  He 
stepped  off  the  porch,  then  turned  back.  "If 
Billy  buries  me,"  he  said,  grasping  Mrs.  Binkin's 
arm,  "  tell  the  boys  I  leave  the  job  to  them,  and 
Milly  to  you." 

A  dry  sob  came  from  his  listener.  "  Don't  go, 
Tom,"  she  whispered,  "  don't  go  !"  But  Tom  was 
gone,  and  she  stood  alone  in  the  dim  light  and 
listened  while  his  footsteps  faded  away.  A  cry 
of  terror  rose  in  her  heart,  but  she  stifled  it ; 
better  Billy  than  Tom,  and  she  turned  again  into 
the  house.  Old  Green  was  still  calling  out,  the 
many  feet  were  still  skipping  and  shuffling  over 
the  rough  floor,  the  shrill  cry  of  the  fife  still  rose 
and  fell  above  the  tumult,  and  little  Mary  and 
Forbes  still  waited  near  the  chair  she  had  left. 
She  had  thought  herself  hardened  against  all 
possible  hopes  and  fears,  and  now  she  trembled 
as  if  she  had  never  before  heard  of  a  man's  being 
shot.  And  she  was  foolish  to  tremble  when  she 
had  been  relieved  of  the  dreadful  fear  that  Billy 
would  come  and  shoot  Tom  while  he  danced. 
She  should  be  thankful  now,  and  not  afraid,  and 
so  when  Milly  came  to  ask  for  Tom  she  made 
her  voice  quite  cheerful.  "  He  has  been  called 
off,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  take  you  home  and 
stay  the  night  with  you  if  Tom  does  not  come 
199 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

back  in  time."  Her  voice  was  quite  cheerful,  but 
Milly  looked  troubled. 

"What  called  him  off?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Binkin  laughed  a  little  as  if  amused. 
"  You  must  ask  him,"  she  said ;  "  Tom  don't  tell 
me  his  business." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  home,"  Forbes  put 
in,  quickly. 

"That  is  not  the  trouble,"  the  girl  answered; 
"  but  Tom,  where  has  he  gone  ?"  and  she  looked 
wistfully  at  Mrs.  Binkin. 

"  It's  no  use  taking  trouble  on  trust,"  Mrs. 
Binkin  said;  "Tom  said  he  wouldn't  be  gone 
long ;  wait  and  see." 

"  Come  and  walk  a  little  with  me,"  and  Forbes 
led  her  away. 

It  was  an  exquisite  night,  and  the  moonlight 
lay  like  a  silver  sheet  over  the  whole  wide  land : 
a  royal  light  that  made  deep  shadows  —  very 
black,  ragged  shadows  under  the  deformed  live- 
oaks  that  Tom  passed  in  his  walk;  dangerous 
shadows  that  he  scanned  very  closely,  with  his 
dainty  pistol  held  at  full  cock.  He  was  going 
straight  to  Fleish's  house,  and  it  behooved  him 
to  be  careful.  Of  course  he  would  not  take  any 
advantage  of  Billy  ;  his  full  intention  was  to  call 
him  out  and  give  him  a  fair  chance;  if  Billy 
could  kill  him,  well  and  good.  He  paused  and 
drew  a  long  breath ;  it  would  be  hard  luck  to  be 
killed  by  such  a  cur  !  Meanwhile,  he  knew  that 
Billy  would  take  every  possible  advantage  of  him, 
so  he  watched  the  shadows. 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

Reaching  the  house  he  knocked  on  the  door 
very  quietly,  and  Mrs.  Fleish  appearing,  he  took 
off  his  hat  and  asked  for  Billy.  The  woman 
started  a  little  when  she  saw  who  the  visitor  was, 
and  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  as  if  for  help. 
"  Par,"  she  called,  "  Par,  where's  Billy  ?" 

"  Gonner  ranch,"  came  tipsily  from  within. 

"  All  right,"  Tom  answered,  cheerfully,  and  he 
turned  away  with  a  pleasant  "  Good-night !"  at 
the  same  time  taking  care  to  step  from  the  light 
of  the  candle  into  the  shadow  of  the  house.  He 
looked  about  him  cautiously  before  he  moved 
again,  and  while  he  waited  he  heard  voices  inside 
talking  eagerly,  with  'Reely's  rising  angrily  above 
the  rest.  This  made  him  feel  safe  from  any  am- 
bush, for  he  remembered  that  Bob  had  returned 
to  the  party  ;  and  the  old  man  being  drunk  had 
probably  told  the  truth,  for  which  'Reely  was 
scolding  him ;  so  Tom  walked  away,  feeling  out 
of  danger  for  the  present.  He  walked  very 
rapidly  now,  going  through  the  Binkin  lot  as  a 
short  cut  to  his  own  house.  By  the  light  of  the 
moon  the  servant,  Josh,  was  made  to  saddle  a 
horse,  and  Tom  got  an  ugly  knife  from  his  room 
and  stuck  it  in  his  belt  in  case  of  accidents ;  then 
telling  the  boy  not  to  wait  for  him,  he  rode  away, 
humming  a  tune  as  he  galloped  across  the  open 
country.  No  man  could  be  in  hiding  where  there 
was  not  a  cactus  bigger  than  his  hat,  and  he  kept 
up  this  pace  until  he  neared  a  dense  growth  of 
mesquite,  and  just  out  of  range  he  paused.  Billy 
might  have  seen  him  coming  and  be  hiding  there, 
20 1 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

and  drawing  his  pistol  he  rode  a  little  nearer. 
Then  he  reflected  that  as  Billy  had  no  immediate 
reason  for  expecting  him  he  would  not  be  wait- 
ing for  him  in  the  brush,  and  so  rode  on  more 
confidently. 

The  ground  was  hard,  and  the  sound  of  his 
horse's  tread  travelled  far  in  the  dead  silence, 
and  Billy  Fleish,  who  was  on  his  way  back  to 
Pecan,  heard  the  thud  and  paused.  After  a  mo- 
ment he  turned  aside  into  the  brake.  It  would 
be  safer  to  wait  and  watch  for  a  little  while.  He 
had  told  the  truth  in  saying  that  he  was  going  to 
the  ranch,  but  once  there  it  was  in  vain  that  he 
tried  to  be  quiet.  The  moon  rose  so  wonderfully 
clear,  and  picture  after  picture  of  the  party  going 
on  in  town  came  before  him,  until  he  could  stand 
it  no  longer,  and  springing  from  his  bed  he  had 
dressed  himself.  He  must  go,  and  if  Milly  had 
deceived  him — he  paused  a  moment  and  remem- 
bered the  words  he  had  said  in  another's  hearing  : 
"  If  she  goes  with  Forbes,  somebody  will  be  miss- 
ing in  the  morning." 

"  And  somebody  shall !"  And  his  voice  echoed 
strangely  in  the  empty  house.  Quickly  he  had 
saddled  his  horse,  and,  arming  himself,  he  had 
ridden  away  towards  the  town.  Like  Tom,  he 
rode  rapidly  across  the  open  prairie,  but  very 
carefully  when  he  reached  the  brush  ;  more  care- 
fully than  Tom  in  that  he  often  stopped  to  listen, 
and  in  one  of  these  pauses  he  heard  the  approach- 
ing footsteps.  Just  where  Billy  stopped  there 
was  a  sink  in  the  land,  and  any  one  following  the 

202 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

tra.il  would  have  to  ride  down  and  up  this  wash- 
out before  passing  Billy's  hiding-place,  giving 
Billy  a  full  view  of  him  during  all  the  crossing. 
He  had  not  long  to  wait  before  he  could  hear  that 
the  horse  was  coming  at  an  easy  trot.  "  Not 
sneakin',"  he  thought,  and  watched  the  opening 
of  the  trail  eagerly.  Suddenly  a  man  on  horse- 
back paused  there  —  Tom  Con  way  !  —  and  Billy 
trembled  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  His  breath 
came  thick  and  fast ;  his  heart  seemed  gal- 
loping madly.  Tom  on  this  trail  that  led  to 
but  one  place  —  the  Fleishes'  ranch  !  It  could 
mean  but  one  thing  —  Tom  was  hunting  for 
him  * 

In  the  brilliant  moonlight  Tom  paused  and 
looked  about  him.  The  silver  embroidery  on  his 
broad  hat  glittered  back  an  answer  to  the  moon  ; 
his  bright  spurs,  the  polished  chains  and  buckles 
on  his  fancy  bridle,  each  caught  its  little  spark  of 
shining.  "  Dandy  Tom  "  the  people  called  him. 
He  had  no  reason  for  stopping,  for  he  had  put 
aside  as  foolish  the  thought  of  ambush.  Billy 
would  never  hunt  for  him  ;  he  even  smiled  a  lit- 
tle at  the  thought.  He  evidently  did  not  think, 
as  he  waited  there  in  the  shadowless  light,  so 
erect  and  so  motionless  that  both  horse  and  rider 
seemed  cut  in  stone,  what  a  mark  he  made.  He 
had  paused  without  reason ;  perhaps  it  was  the 
power  of  the  hate-bright  eyes  that  were  watch- 
ing him. 

Once  more  Tom  glanced  about  him,  then  up  to 
the  sky.  A  quick  shot,  a  cry  hushed  in  its  birth, 
203 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

an  aimless  stabbing  of  the  spurs,  and  horse  and 
rider  sprang  headlong  down  the  bluff. 

Billy  did  not  move  ;  as  still  as  death  he  waited, 
even  after  the  horse  had  regained  its  footing  and 
stood  up  trembling  by  his  prostrate  master,  held 
by  the  dead  hand  still  clutching  the  bridle.  Billy 
watched,  but  his  enemy  did  not  stir  ;  he  lay  there 
in  a  heap,  face  down  in  the  sand. 

"  Dead  !"  Billy  whispered,  while  a  great  fear 
seized  him.  "  Dead  !"  he  repeated,  and  the  wind 
that  was  rushing  by  seemed  to  say  the  word  in  a 
hundred  tones,  and  the  moonlight  seemed  to 
tremble  with  him.  They  hanged  men  for  mur- 
der, and  this  was  murder.  He  hadn't  given  Tom 
a  chance.  Aye,  but  nobody  had  seen  it,  and  no 
living  soul  should  find  it  out.  Tom's  horse  was 
beginning  to  struggle,  and  Billy  rode  quickly 
down  the  bank.  Even  then  he  paused  a  moment, 
but  the  crumpled  figure  lay  too  still  to  have  any 
life  in  it,  and,  dismounting,  Billy  caught  the 
frightened  horse. 

He  was  not  long  in  tying  his  own  horse  to  a 
bush  nor  in  lifting  the  dead  man  across  the  others 
horse,  where  he  hung  limp  and  straight ;  then 
he  picked  up  the  broad  Mexican  hat  whose  em- 
broideries had  shown  so  gayly  a  moment  before, 
and,  after  looking  about  in  the  sand  for  further 
tokens,  he  led  Tom's  horse,  carrying  his  dead 
master,  down  the  rapidly  deepening  gulch.  Far- 
ther down  there  was  a  sudden  drop  in  the  gulch 
itself,  and  it  was  to  this  spot  that  he  hastened,  or 
tried  to  hasten,  for  the  sand  and  gravel  seemed 
204 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

purposely  to  give  under  his  steps,  and  as  one  in  a 
nightmare  he  strove  to  walk  faster,  yet  seeming 
always  unable.  And  now  a  thousand  fears  beset 
him — suppose  his  horse  should  break  away  and 
go  into  the  town  without  him  ;  suppose  Tom  had 
been  waiting  on  the  edge  of  the  gulch  for  others  ; 
suppose  they  should  come  and  track  him ;  sup- 
pose his  enemy  on  the  horse  he  led — suppose  he 
was  not  dead  !  This  thought  stopped  him,  and 
he  looked  over  his  shoulder  fearfully,  he  shook 
himself,  he  was  a  fool.  Of  course  Tom  was 
dead;  and  he  went  back  and  looked  into  the 
wide-open  eyes,  and  touched  the  fancy  shirt  all 
drenched  with  blood — of  course  he  was  dead,  shot 
straight  through  the  heart,  and  Billy  hurried  on. 
It  could  not  be  very  far  to  the  drop  in  the  gulch 
now — a  drop  of  thirty  feet ;  it  would  make  a  deep 
grave  for  Tom  and  for  his  horse,  too  ;  yes,  a  deep 
grave,  and  here  it  was ;  he  could  tell  by  the 
denser  growth  on  the  sides  of  the  gulch,  for  there 
was  always  some  water  in  this  deep  place  which 
caused  this  unusual  fertility.  He  went  carefully 
now,  not  being  sure  of  the  edge  in  the  treach- 
erous shadows ;  but  the  horse  held  back,  and 
Billy  had  to  persuade  him  nearer  step  by  step — 
step  by  step  until  by  a  great  effort,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  great  risk,  he  could  tie  the  bridle  to 
the  branch  of  a  tree  hanging  over  the  drop.  It 
was  a  dangerous  experiment,  but  fear  had  made 
Billy  wellnigh  fearless,  and  he  ran  this  risk 
almost  without  knowing  it.  It  was  soon  done ; 
then,  withdrawing  a  few  steps,  he  drew  his  pistol 
205 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

and  fired.  There  was  a  mad  lunge  and  an  almost 
human  cry,  a  breaking  and  crashing  of  branches, 
a  splash,  and  some  crystal  drops  thrown  high  in 
the  moonlight,  then  all  was  still,  horribly  still ! 
Billy  waited  and  listened,  then  filling  the  dead 
man's  hat  with  gravel  he  dropped  that  over,  too, 
and,  turning  away,  ran  with  all  his  strength.  It 
did  not  take  him  a  moment  to  mount,  and,  driv- 
ing his  spurs  in  cruelly,  to  dash  up  the  side  of 
the  gulch  and  along  the  narrow  trail.  The  long, 
swift  run  across  the  plain  restored  him  some- 
what, and  he  went  into  the  town  and  up  to  his 
father's  house  at  a  moderate  pace.  He  let  him- 
self in  as  quietly  as  he  could,  but  'Reely,  being 
anxious  after  Tom's  visit,  heard  him,  and  came 
quickly  to  the  store-room  where  he  was  filling  his 
whiskey  flask. 

"  Tom  Conway's  been  here,"  she  said,  without 
preliminary  explanation,  and  the  whiskey  splashed 
all  over  the  floor  giving  up  a  strong  green  smell 
that  augured  ill  for  the  man  who  drank  much  of 
it ;  but  Billy  scarcely  took  time  to  swear  at  the 
accident  so  eager  was  he  to  put  the  flask  to  his 
lips.  "An'  you'd  better  not  drink  too  much," 
'Reely  went  on,  disagreeably.  "  Tom's  huntin' 
you  right  now,  and  you'll  need  a  level  head." 

"  Tom  Conway  be !"  Billy  muttered,  sul- 
lenly, clearing  his  throat  after  the  fiery  draught. 
"  I  ain't  'fraid  er  him,  ner  none  like  him." 

"  'Cause  you  never  sees  him,"  'Reely  retorted. 
"  I  notice  you're  mighty  shy  of  him."  Billy  paused 
for  a  moment ;  the  longing  to  brag  that  he  had 
206 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

already  "  finished  Tom  "  was  strong  upon  him ; 
but  the  vision  of  a  man  he  had  seen  hanged — and 
the  memory  of  Dick  and  Phil  and  Jim  Conway — 
deterred  him,  and  instead  he  asked,  "  Is  the  party 
done  ?"  At  once  the  flood-gates  of  'Reely's  wrath 
were  opened,  and  her  story  came  out  angrily,  and 
Billy  listening,  chuckled — "  So  you  won't  git  your 
Perkins  ?"  he  said,  when  she  paused,  then  laughed 
loud  and  long — a  nervous,  drunken  laugh,  that 
sent  'Reely  off  in*  a  rage  and  brought  his  mother 
to  inquire  into  the  noise.  "  You'd  better  go  to 
bed,"  she  said.  "  You're  drunk,  an'  Tom  Conway's 
a-huntin'  you."  Billy  was  a  little  beyond  himself 
now,  and  he  laughed  again  as  he  answered : 

"  Tom  Conway  an'  his  horse  is  down  in  the 
bottom  o'  Jinkins's  washout,  plumb  dead,  an'  I 
done  it,  old  girl,"  laying  one  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  swaying  her  back  and  forth.  "Dandy  Tom 
stood  on  top  the  gulch  in  the  moonlight,"  he  went 
on,  more  slowly,  "  but  he'll  never  look  at  the  moon 
no  mo',  for  one  good  bullet's  in  Tom's  heart,  and 
one's  in  his  horse's  head  —  see  thar!"  and  draw- 
ing his  pistol  he  showed  the  two  empty  chambers 
to  the  terrified  woman  who  now  clung  to  him. 

"An'  Dick,  an'  Jim,  an'  Phil?"  she  whispered, 
"or  they  might  heng  you,  Billy?"  His  own  fears 
blanching  the  face  of  another  and  sounding  in 
his  ears  sobered  Billy  for  a  moment. 

"  Not  if  you  don't  tell,  Mar,"  he  gasped — "  not 

if  you  don't  tell !     Nobody  kin  find  Tom  if  you 

don't  tell.     I  throwed  him  deep  in  the  water,  Mar. 

Oh,  don't  tell !"  pleading,  despairingly.   Then  he 

207 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

turned  away,  crying  "  I'm  goin'  to  the  party,"  and 
rushed  into  the  open  air. 

And  the  mother,  leaning  against  the  wall,  seem- 
ed scarcely  ably  to  breathe. 

"  Tom  Conway  dead — dead  !"  Over  and  over 
again  she  whispered  the  words,  hardly  compre- 
hending them — "Tom  Conway  dead !" — it  seemed 
an  impossible  thing  that  Billy  should  kill  Tom 
Conway.  She  would  go  to-morrow — she  would 
go  now,  why  not  now  ? — go  now  and  see  !  She 
was  a  fool !  And  snatching  up  a  tin  cup  she 
poured  for  herself  a  draught  as  fiery,  if  not  as 
deep,  as  that  her  son  had  taken — she  must  find 
courage  somehow. 


Ill 

' '  How  my  heart  leaps  to  danger  ! 
I  have  been  so  long  a  pilot  on  rough  seas, 
And  almost  rudderless  !" 

At  Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  the  party  was  proving  a 
great  success,  and  the  hostess  felt  that  the  grand 
supper  coming  after  the  candy  -  pulling  would 
surely  make  her  entertainment  an  era  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  town.  In  her  mind  she  heard  the 
words  "  Mis'  Gollyhaw's  big  Candy-stew  "  sound- 
ing far  into  the  coming  years.  The  house  was 
empty  now,  for  every  one  was  in  the  yard,  where 
the  tables  had  been  arranged  for  the  candy,  and 
where  the  lamps  that  had  been  carried  out,  and 
the  lanterns  in  the  trees,  combined  with  the 
208 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

moonlight,  made  the  outside  shadows  very  black. 
But  inside  the  ring  of  light  all  was  noisily  merry  ; 
the  whole  company  was  divided  into  couples 
"pulling  together/'  as  they  termed  it,  a  grace- 
ful motion,  and  a  rapid  mode  of  making  the 
candy  of  the  proper  consistency.  Flushed  with 
success,  Mrs.  Gollyhaw  made  her  way  in  and  out 
among  the  tables,  laughing,  and  warning  the 
boys  not  to  u  wrap  the  girls,"  which  meant  that 
they  were  not  to  stretch  the  candy  and  then 
wind  it  about  the  young  women.  "  The  girls  is 
dressed  too  fine,"  she  said,  "  and  there's  sumpen 
nice  comin*  if  you  behave  ;"  which  judiciously 
combined  warning  and  promise  made  things 
more  quiet  than  usual.  So  the  candy  was  pulled, 
and  put  aside  in  pieces  of  paper  and  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  to  be  taken  home.  And  Billy 
Fleish,  in  the  outer  darkness — of  soul  as  well  as 
of  night — watched  it  all  with  angry,  jealous  eyes. 
It  was  some  time  before  he  could  find  Milly  Con- 
way,  and  this  because  he  looked  for  her  in  the 
crowd,  where  she  was  not.  He  had  not  come  to 
the  party  with  the  intention  of  joining  in  the 
pleasures,  but  only  with  a  wild  desire  to  see  what 
Milly  was  doing.  She  had  told  him  the  truth 
about  her  coming  to  the  party  with  Tom.  'Ree- 
ly's  story  had  proved  that ;  but  now  that  Tom 
was  dead,  what  was  she  doing  ?  Mrs.  Binkin  he 
easily  found,  tall  and  straight,  moving  like  a 
black  shadow  among  the  bright  groups,  "dish- 
ing" the  candy.  Presently,  while  Billy  watched, 
she  disappeared  in  the  shadow.  He  kept  an 
o  209 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

eager  lookout,  fearing  discovery,  but  nothing  ap- 
proached him,  and  she  shortly  reappeared,  but 
without  little  Mary,  who  had  been  with  her. 
The  whiskey  Billy  had  taken,  and  which  had 
overthrown  him  for  a  moment,  served  now  to 
steady  his  nerves  and  sharpen  his  faculties,  and 
he  moved  carefully  towards  the  spot  which  Mrs. 
Binkin  seemed  to  haunt.  Who  was  in  that 
shadow  ?  Milly  Conway,  he  answered  to  him- 
self, for  she  was  the  only  girl  missing  from  the 
circle  of  light.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  crept,  un- 
til the  shadow  was  between  him  and  the  light, 
and  he  saw  two  figures  dimly  outlined  —  Milly 
and  Forbes !  He  drew  a  long,  sharp  breath, 
stopping  suddenly,  for  Milly  turned  her  head. 

"  What  was  that  ?"  she  asked,  and  Forbes's  voice 
answered : 

"  I  heard  nothing." 

Then  they  resumed  their  talk  in  low  tones, 
which  Billy  strove  to  distinguish.  He  did  not 
dare  go  nearer,  and  from  where  he  was  he  could 
hear  only  the  murmur  of  their  voices,  and  watch 
their  heads  that  occasionally  bent  in  the  act  of 
listening,  or  in  the  earnestness  of  speech.  What 
were  they  saying — what  did  this  mean — would  she 
marry  Forbes  ?  He  would  shoot  him  first ;  and  a 
mad  frenzy  seized  him.  Why  not  shoot  now  ?  He 
could  so  surely  do  it  while  he  suffered  this  sharp 
torture — why  not  shoot  him  now  ?  No,  not  now, 
later — there  would  come  a  better  time  before 
this  night  was  done,  and  he  chuckled  scornfully. 
Milly  and  Forbes  might  have  heard  him  if  they 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

had  not  risen  at  that  moment  to  follow  the  crowd 
into  the  supper-room.  Close  up  to  the  windows 
Billy  crept,  and  saw  that  at  no  time  did  Forbes 
leave  Milly's  side ;  and  Mrs.  Binkin  saw  it  too  ; 
and  in  her  secret  heart  she  trembled.  Suddenly 
she  had  come  to  be  quite  sure  that  Forbes  meant 
nothing ;  Milly  was  clever,  and  it  was  only  to 
pass  the  time  that  Forbes  thought  of  her  at  all, 
and  when  a  new  situation  offered  he  would  go  away 
quietly  with  a  friendly  good-bye.  The  more  she 
watched  them,  the  more  surely  she  came  to  this 
conclusion,  and  determined  that  Tom  must  be 
told.  This  brought  to  her  mind  the  non-appear- 
ance of  Tom,  about  which  she  was  becoming  very 
anxious.  It  would  have  been  better,  was  her 
bitter  thought,  to  let  things  take  their  course,  to 
have  let  Billy  Fleish  shoot  Forbes,  for  Milly 
would  then  have  had  a  "  life-long  sorrow "  to 
comfort  her — a  beautiful  "  might-have-been  "  to 
fill  every  vacant  hour  !  As  it  was,  Forbes  going 
without  "  speaking,"  Milly  would  simply  be  "  left," 
as  the  young  people  expressed  it — a  thing  far 
worse  than  death  !  Her  darling  the  laugh  of 
Pecan  ?  Already  she  seemed  to  hear  the  gibing 
comments  of  her  own  daughters,  and,  still  worse, 
of  'Reely  Fleish.  And  looking  across  the  room 
at  Milly's  sweet  face,  so  pale  and  troubled  with 
anxiety  for  Tom,  and  yet  smiling  whenever  Forbes 
spoke,  she  made  a  vow  that  either  he  should 
marry  the  girl,  or  the  town  should  know  that  she 
had  refused  him. 

"He  shall,"  she  muttered— -"  he  shall,  or  else 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

die,"  and  she  moved  with  the  crowd  back  to  the 
parlor.  At  last  the  party  was  over,  and  Forbes 
offered  his  services  as  escort  to  Milly  and  Mrs. 
Binkin. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Binkin  answered,  "  an'  I'm  to  spend 
the  night  with  you,  Milly — that  is,  if  Tom  ain't 
there  before  us.  But  the  girls  will  fuss  if  they 
know  it,"  she  went  on,  "  so  you  an'  Mary  an'  Mr. 
Forbes  go  on,  an'  I'll  slip  over  after  the  girls  are 
quiet.  But  if  Tom's  there,  let  Mr.  Forbes  stop 
on  his  way  back  and  tell  me." 

So  it  was  that  Billy's  fury  was  added  to  by  see- 
ing the  quartet  leave  the  house,  then  by  seeing 
Mrs.  Binkin  turn  back,  while  Forbes,  with  Milly 
leaning  on  his  arm,  and  little  Mary  holding  his 
other  hand,  walked  away  slowly  in  the  quiet 
moonlight. 

It  did  not  take  Mrs.  Binkin  long  to  reach  her 
own  house,  where  her  daughters  were  saying  up- 
roarious last  words  to  their  escorts ;  but  the 
young  men  said  good-bye  when  they  saw  her,  and 
Mrs.  Binkin  had  the  satisfaction  of  fastening  the 
door  immediately,  and  putting  out  the  lights. 
She  waited  a  little  while  after  she  heard  her 
daughters  lock  their  door,  then  taking  a  small 
bundle  of  night-clothes,  she  made  her  own  door 
fast,  and  went  softly  through  the  back-lot  and 
bars  to  the  long  lane. 

She  walked  rapidly,  pausing  only  once  to  look 
back,  being  just  in  time  to  see  the  light  in  her 
daughters'  room  vanish.  This  made  her  feel 
more  secure  as  to  their  curiosity,  but  she  still 

212 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

felt  a  desperate  anxiety  as  to  what  she  should  or 
should  not  find  at  the  Conways'.  Swiftly,  swiftly 
she  hurried  down  the  long  lane,  with  her  head 
bent,  and  her  mind  working  busily  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  sights  and  sounds.  How  could  she 
carry  out  her  oath  concerning  Forbes^ — how  could 
she  save  Milly  from  being  the  town's  talk? 

Suddenly  she  stopped  ;  in  the  dead  silence  of 
the  waning  night  she  heard  men's  voices  in  sup- 
pressed, angry  tones. 

She  crept  a  little  farther  into  the  shadow  of  a 
clump  of  mesquite ;  and  now  she  could  see  them 
quite  clearly — one  was  slim  and  tall,  and  one  was 
stout.  So  much  she  could  see,  but  she  could  not 
hear  save  the  bitter  fury  in  their  tones.  She 
wished  that  she  had  had  her  wits  about  her,  and 
had  not  come  so  near.  Who  were  they  ? 

Suddenly  she  saw  the  thin  man  strike  the 
other  full  in  the  face,  and  his  voice  rising  with 
the  blow  he  struck,  she  recognized  Forbes.  Then 
the  figures  became  one  in  a  deadly  struggle. 

She  crept  a  little  nearer ;  her  heart  throbbed 
with  a  wild  excitement. 

"Aye,"  she  whispered,  as  something  flashed 
high  in  the  moonlight,  glittering  for  a  moment, 
"  they  are  down  now — and  a  groan  !"  Still  they 
struggled  ;  then  one  man  rose,  and  it  was  the 
slim  one  ;  the  other  lay  still. 

To  her  dazed  mind  only  one  realization  came, 
Forbes  had  murdered  somebody.  She  went  slow- 
ly forward.  Forbes  still  stood  over  his  prostrate 
foe,  looking  down  on  him  ;  then  he  lifted  his 
213 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

head  and  the  moonlight  struck  full  on  his  face  so 
white,  so  drawn,  that  she  scarcely  recognized  it. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  started  with 
a  suppressed  cry,  and  staggered  like  a  drunken 
man. 

"  Come  away,"  she  whispered,  taking  the  long 
knife  from  his  nerveless  hand  and  dropping  it  by 
the  dead  man — "come  away."  Swiftly  she  re- 
traced her  steps,  Forbes  following  like  a  child, 
until  reaching  her  own  small  barn,  she  led  him 
in,  and  shutting  the  door  lighted  a  lantern  that 
was  hanging  against  the  wall,  and  looked  calmly 
in  the  face  before  her. 

"Whom  have  you  murdered?"  she  asked,  her 
dark  eyes  shining  like  coals  of  fire,  and  her  face 
almost  as  white  as  Forbes's — "  who  is  it  ?" 

"  Fleish,"  he  whispered—"  Billy  Fleish,"  and  he 
trembled  as  if  he  had  a  chill. 

Mrs.  Binkin  started  —  Billy  Fleish  !  Then 
where  was  Tom  Conway  ? 

"  I  killed  him  in  self-defence,"  Forbes  went  on. 

"  You  struck  him  first,"  she  said,  quickly,  her 
thoughts  flying  back  to  their  starting-point,  and 
ending  in  the  power  she  now  had  over  Forbes — 
"  I  saw  you  strike  him." 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered,  looking  down  on  his  hands 
that  he  was  wiping  over  and  over  again  on  his 
handkerchief,  while  an  idle  memory  came  to  him 
of  Lady  Macbeth.  "  Yes,  I  did."  Then  he  sighed, 
a  sigh  that  was  almost  a  sob,  and  a  great  shudder 
swept  over  him  like  a  wave. 

"And  that  will  hang  you,"  Mrs.  Binkin  went 
214 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

on,  relentlessly.  The  young  man  started  towards 
the  door,  but  the  woman  stood  before  him. 

"  If  you  run  away,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  they  will 
arrest  you  on  suspicion — if  you  go  quietly  home 
no  one  will  think  of  you  in  the  matter." 

"You  will  know,"  and  his  eyes  flashed  as  if 
he  would  like  to  double  his  crime.  Mrs.  Binkin 
laughed  derisively. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  hang  you,  Paul  Forbes," 
she  said,  "  and  I  hate  the  Fleishes." 

"  And  you  will  not  tell  ?"  he  questioned,  eagerly. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  will  make  me  tell," 
she  answered,  slowly — "  if  you  go  away  without 
asking  Milly  Conway  to  marry  you.  If  you  do 
that,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  hang  you."  And,  draw- 
ing a  step  nearer,  she  looked  at  him  closely. 
"  There  is  blood  on  your  shirt  and  collar,"  she 
said,  "  and  on  your  cuffs  ;  that  will  betray  you. 
I  have  your  clean  clothes  in  the  house  ;  I  will  go 
and  fetch  them,  and  you  can  change  them  here." 
As  she  had  let  herself  out,  so  she  let  herself  into 
the  house,  and  getting  the  clothes  and  a  flask, 
went  back  to  the  barn. 

"  Be  quick,"  she  whispered,  handing  the  clothes 
in ;  and  while  she  waited  outside  in  the  silence, 
she  tried  in  vain  to  follow  out  the  possibilities 
of  the  situation.  Only  one  thought  stayed  with 
her  :  she  could  now  make  Forbes  offer  himself 
to  Milly ;  and  when  Forbes  opened  the  door  to 
her,  this  was  her  only  plan.  She  gathered  up  his 
things  quickly,  making  them  into  a  compact 
bundle,  saying,  suggestively,  "  I  am  your  wash- 
sis 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

erwoman."  Then  she  handed  him  the  flask. 
u  Drink  some  of  that,"  she  said,  "  then  go  home 
and  go  to  bed ;  in  the  morning  get  up  and 
teach  your  school,  as  usual,  and  you'll  be  perfect- 
ly safe — unless — "  pausing  a  moment,  "you  break 
your  promise  to  me,"  and  she  held  the  door 
open  as  if  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  his  obe- 
dience. Forbes  moved,  then  stopped  a  moment 
and  looked  at  her.  She  puzzled  him — she  was 
a  different  woman  to  him  now,  and  how  was  it 
that  she  had  the  power  to  order  him?  All  this 
passed  through  his  mind  in  a  confused  way  as  he 
looked  at  her,  but  her  eyes  did  not  flinch ;  in- 
stead, they  seemed  to  burn  brighter  and  brighter, 
until  he  could  no  longer  bear  them,  and  he  turned 
away. 

"  And  these  clothes  ?"  he  asked,  uneasily,  "  you 
will  send  them  to  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Binkin  looked  at  the  averted  face  for  a 
moment  with  a  slow,  contemptuous  knowledge 
growing  in  her  eyes ;  then  she  said,  tersely : 

"  Have  I  lost  any  of  your  clothes  yet,  Mr. 
Forbes?" 

It  was  only  a  natural  anxiety  that  made  Forbes 
ask  this  question  ;  but  it  was  a  mistake.  And 
Mrs.  Binkin  at  once  determined  that  the  clothes 
should  not  be  washed ;  instead,  she  would  look 
them  over  carefully,  and  see  what  they  could 
prove  in  case  of  necessity.  So  Forbes  passed 
out  and  away,  having  put  himself  more  than  ever 
in  this  woman's  power ;  while  she,  full  of  new 
suspicions,  hurried  to  her  own  house,  where  once 
216 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

more  she  made  noiseless  entrance,  hid  the  clothes 
between  the  mattresses  of  her  own  bed,  then  put- 
ting the  flask  in  its  usual  place,  began  afresh  her 
walk  to  the  Conways'.  While  she  had  waited  for 
Forbes  to  change  his  clothes,  she  had  tried  in 
vain  to  think ;  now  as  she  walked  the  thoughts 
came  thick  and  fast,  and  the  question  presented 
itself :  Did  she  want  Milly  to  marry  this  man — 
this  weak  coward,  as  she  now  called  Forbes?  Why 
had  he  not  defied  her  ?  She  would  have  honored 
him  for  shouldering  his  deed,  and  the  fact  of  the 
first  blow  would  never  have  been  revealed.  All 
Pecan  would  have  approved  him,  and  have  taken 
his  part ;  he  would  have  established  his  character 
forever  !  Instead,  he  had  proved  himself  a  piti- 
ful coward.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  go  after 
him  at  once,  and,  retracting  her  promise,  tell  him 
she  Would  denounce  him  ?  Surely  this  would 
solve  the  problem,  and  prevent  people  from  say- 
ing that  Milly  had  been  "  left." 

She  paused  before  she  entered  the  lane  to  de- 
cide. Poor  creature,  he  would  die  of  fright !  It 
would  be  more  merciful  to  protect  him  ;  and  once 
let  Milly  know  his  cowardice,  she  would  never 
marry  him  ;  or,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst, 
she  could  put  the  whole  matter  into  Tom's  hands. 
At  all  events,  she  would  wait  until  the  morning — 
until  Tom  came. 

She  was  weary  now  and  faint  with  all  she  had 

gone  through,  and  leaned  against  the  corner  of 

the  fence,  feeling  sick  and  dizzy.     Suddenly  the 

memory  came  to  her  of  what  was  lying  in  the 

217 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

lane,  and  if  she  fell  ill  where  she  was,  and  the 
bloody  clothes  were  found,  both  she  and  Forbes 
would  be  arrested.  She  stood  up,  she  must  find 
strength  to  go,  and  she  had  been  a  fool  not  to 
bring  the  little  flask  ;  it  would  have  helped  her 
now.  She  turned  her  face  to  the  wind  and  loosen- 
ed the  neck  of  her  frock ;  this  made  her  feel  better, 
and  she  started  resolutely  on  her  journey.  She 
was  a  fool  to  mind  passing  Billy  Fleish  just  be- 
cause he  was  dead  ;  it  was  much  safer  than  to 
pass  him  living  at  this  time  of  the  night — or 
morning  rather,  for  now  the  light  was  beginning 
to  gather  in  the  east. 

Swiftly  she  walked,  looking  straight  ahead,  and 
striving  to  forget  what  she  was  approaching.  In 
the  morning  she  would  have  to  pass  it  again — she 
would  have  to  pretend  to  discover  it !  She  had 
planned  to  go  home  before  her  daughters  missed 
her,  and  if  she  did  this  she  would  have  to  be  the 
discoverer.  If  she  waited,  and  stayed  late  enough 
for  them  to  know  that  she  had  planned  to  spend 
the  night  with  Milly,  while  pretending  to  be  at 
home,  what  questions  might  not  be  asked  ? 

Difficulties  seemed  to  thicken.  She  wished 
that  she  had  cried  out  "  Murder  !"  when  she  had 
first  heard  the  noise — any  sensible  woman  would 
have  done  it ;  and  she  would  have  done  it  if  she 
had  known  Forbes  then  as  she  knew  him  now ; 
and  she  began  to  wonder  what  had  driven  him  to 
this  act,  for  he  was  cautious  and  would  think  a 
long  time  before  he  would  strike  a  man — it  would 
never  be  "  a  word  and  a  blow  "  with  him.  She 
218 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

had  heard  him  say  once  that  the  law  was  the 
best  weapon  a  man  could  use  in  any  case.  Yes, 
and  now  that  she  thought  of  it,  she  had  begun  to 
distrust  him  from  that  very  moment.  For  how 
could  the  making  a  man  pay  costs  and  damages 
wipe  out  an  insult?  Even  Billy  Fleish  would 
have  scorned  that !  No,  Milly  would  never  marry 
Forbes. 

She  was  near  the  spot  now — she  knew  it  by  the 
clump  of  mesquite ;  and  she  crossed  over  to  the 
other  side  of  the  lane  and  walked  as  close  to  the 
fence  as  possible,  turning  her  eyes  to  look  away 
across  the  forsaken  field.  But  do  what  she  would, 
she  saw  it  lying  there,  a  black  mass,  with  its  face 
turned  up  to  the  ghastly  light  that  was  neither 
night  nor  day. 

If  she  had  not  been  so  weary  she  would  have 
run.  Why  should  she  be  so  foolish,  she  who  had 
seen  death  in  every  shape  and  form  !  Yet  when 
she  reached  the  house  where  the  door  which  had 
been  left  on  the  latch  for  her  could  be  bolted,  she 
bolted  it  hastily  ;  in  some  degree  it  shut  out  that 
dead  thing  that  only  a  few  short  hours  ago  she 
had  spoken  to  so  harshly.  Poor  Billy  !  he  had 
said  that  some  one  would  be  missing  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  his  words  had  come  true. 

She  crept  up  the  ladder  to  the  loft,  where  a 
lamp  burned  low  in  a  far  corner  ;  she  shut  the 
trap-door  carefully  and  fastened  it,  again  feeling 
glad  that  she  was  shutting  out  that  dead  thing. 

For  one  moment  she  leaned  over  the  two  sleep- 
ing creatures  who  were  so  dear  to  her,  and  on 
219 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

Milly's  cheeks  she  saw  tears  "  Worryin'  for  Tom/* 
she  said  to  herself.  "  If  Forbes  had  caused  these 
tears?"  and  for  a  second  she  wished  that  the 
struggle  in  the  lane  had  terminated  differently. 
She  undressed  and  lay  down  on  the  couch  which 
had  been  prepared  for  her ;  but  she  did  not  extin- 
guish the  light ;  the  darkness  would  be  unbearable 
in  her  present  state  of  "  foolish  nervousness,"  as 
she  was  pleased  to  term  her  condition  of  mind, 
and  she  dreaded  wakefulness.  But  the  long  night 
of  anxiety  and  of  excitement,  coming  after  a  long 
day  of  work,  proved  too  much  for  her,  and  ex- 
hausted nature  sank  quickly  and  mercifully  into 
a  heavy,  dreamless  slumber. 

Heavily  she  slept  while  the  moon  waned  and 
the  stars  burned  themselves  out — heavily,  dream- 
lessly,  until  the  sun,  rising  in  a  cloudless  sky, 
streamed  over  the  shadowless  land — struck  across 
Billy  Fleish's  dead  white  face,  and  tipped  with 
gold  the  tangled  brush  that  met  over  "Jenkins's 
Washout."  It  would  take  the  strongest  noon- 
day beam  to  reach  Tom  Conway's  resting-place, 
but  Billy  lay  revealed  by  the  earliest  light,  and 
the  cows  coming  up  the  long  lane  to  be  milked 
stopped  short,  and  congregated  there  with  pitiful 
lowings,  pawing  the  ground  and  moving  about  in 
circles,  but  coming  no  nearer.  Josh,  who  milked 
the  cows,  was  a  patient  negro,  not  unwilling  to 
linger  over  his  work  ;  so  it  was  not  until  his 
mother,  Judy,  compelled  him  that  he  went  to  look 
after  the  cows. 

"You've  been    efter   Miss  Milly's  horse  long 

220 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

ernough  to  grow  the  corn  you  gin  him/*  she  said. 
"  You  don't  take  no  longer  w'en  all  ther  stock's 
yer,  an'  Marse  Tom  '11  be  a-comin'  soon,  an  '11  want 
you  body  an'  soul,"  her  voice  rising  until  it  waked 
the  girls  up-stairs.  "  So  go  an'  git  them  cows,  er 
I'll  make  you  b'lieve  you're  struck  by  lightnin'." 
Josh  rose  slowly,  having  been  struck  by  this  kind 
of  lightning  before,  probably,  and  went  to  the 
front  gate  followed  by  his  mother.  "  Thar  they 
all  is,"  she  went  on,  "  all-er-'em  down  the  lane 
walkin'  roun'  an'  moanin'.  I  reckin'  it's  a  snake 
makin'  'em  so  onressless  ;  go  an'  see." 

"  Thet's  cur'us,  certain,"  and  Josh  picked  up  a 
slat  that  had  fallen  from  the  gate  ;  and  Milly  and 
Mary,  hearing  the  talk,  watched  from  the  up-stairs 
windows  ;  but  Mrs.  Binkin  still  slept  heavily.  It 
was  not  long,  but  before  Josh  reached  the  cows 
he  stopped  with  a  cry — a  terrified,  tremulous  cry — 
and  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone !  Then  Judy  ran, 
and  Milly  felt  as  if  her  heart  had  frozen  in  her 
bosom.  What  had  happened — where  was  Tom? 

She  could  not  move  from  where  she  leaned  on 
the  window-sill,  even  when  Judy  came  running 
back  silent,  and  dragging  Josh  with  her.  The 
woman  reached  the  house,  shut  the  door  after 
her,  then  labored  up  the  ladder-steps,  panting  and 
terror-stricken,  crying  under  her  breath: 

"  My  God !  My  God  !  who  done  it  ? — whar's  Marse 
Tom — Marse  Tom !"  pushing  open  the  trap-door 
and  sinking  on  the  floor  with  her  feet  still  on  the 
ladder,  wringing  her  hands  and  swaying  back 
and  forth,  whispering,  "  Mister  Billy  Fleish,  Mis- 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

ter  Billy  Fleish  dead  out  thar  in  ther  road,  an* 
whar's  Marse  Tom — Marse  Tom  ?" 

Slowly  Milly  came  towards  her,  listening  in 
fascinated  terror,  while  little  Mary  cast  herself 
upon  her  mother. 

"Wake  up,  wake  up  !"  she  called.  "  Oh,  moth- 
er, mother  !"  and  Mrs.  Binkin  started  with  a  cry 
of  alarm.  She  was  near  betraying  herself  in  that 
moment  ;  then  the  dark  story  came  back  to 
her  only  too  quickly,  and  the  paleness  of  her 
face  as  she  sank  back  cm  the  pillow  could  easily 
be  attributed  to  Judy's  awful  words.  A  lit- 
tle while  she  lay  there  realizing  the  situation ; 
then  she  got  up  quickly,  giving  rapid,  decided 
orders. 

"  Go  across  the  field,  Judy/'  she  said,  "  and  ask 
Mr.  Dave  Brown  to  come  here  as  quick  as  he  can; 
you  can  tell  him  'fore  he  gets  here,  Judy,  but  don't 
tell  him  till  he's  on  the  way — he  must  see  an'  hear 
it  first  'fore  any  crowd  comes."  Her  firm  voice 
restored  Judy,  and  she  rose  to  the  occasion. 
"  Don't  speak  to  anybody  on  the  way,"  Mrs.  Bin- 
kin  went  on,  "  an'  don't  let  the  Browns  see  that 
anything  is  wrong,  do  you  hear  ?" 

"  I  do,  Mis'  Binkin." 

"An'  tell  Josh  to  dish  up  breakfast;  if  we 
starve  an'  take  on  they'll  think  we  did  it." 

"  That's  so,"  and  Judy  disappeared  down  the 
ladder. 

"  An'  we'll  dress  as  fast  as  we  can,  Milly,"  turn- 
ing to  the  girl,  who  had  sunk  down  on  the  bed ; 
"we  know  nothin'  about  it,  an'  we  mustn't  know 

222 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

anything  about  it.     None  of  the  boys  are  here," 
she  went  on,  "  but  I'll  take  care  of  you." 

"  Where  is  Tom  ?"  the  girl  whispered. 

Mrs.  Binkin  shook  her  head.  "  That's  more 
than  I  can  say,"  she  answered, "  but  if  he'd  killed 
Billy  Fleish  he  wouldn't  have  run  away — no,  no 
more  than  if  he'd  killed  a  dog." 

"I  did  not  think  Tom  had  done  it,"  Milly 
faltered. 

0  Yes  you  did,"  Mrs.  Binkin  answered,  decided- 
ly, more  decidedly  than  she  had  ever  spoken  to 
Milly  before  ;  but  she  wished  to  rouse  the  girl, 
especially  as  her  words  had  brought  up  another 
disagreeable  complication.  "  An'  if  you,  Tom's 
own  sister,"  she  went  on,  "  is  willin'  to  put  it  on 
Tom,  other  people  will,  I  know." 

Milly  sprang  up,  flushing  hotly.  "  I  did  not — 
I  did  not  mean  that !"  she  cried.  "  Tom  never 
would  have  run  away — never  !" 

"  Of  course  not,"  Mrs.  Binkin  answered,  quick- 
ly ;  "  Tom  is  no  coward." 

Which  last  suggestion  caused  Milly  to  be  down- 
stairs in  a  little  while,  and  they  were  quietly  eat- 
ing breakfast  when  Mr.  Brown  came  in.  It 
might  have  been  the  exertion  of  climbing  so 
many  fences,  or  it  might  have  been  that  he  had 
become  infected  with  Judy's  horror  ;  whatever  it 
was,  Mr.  Brown  looked  quite  pale  when  he  came. 
He  sat  down  for  a  little  while  to  hear  the  story 
of  the  finding  afresh  before  he  went  down  the 
lane  ;  then  he  asked  Mrs.  Binkin  to  go  with  him 
as  witness. 

223- 


MRS.  GOLLYHAWS  CANDY-STEW 

"  Josh  and  Judy  saw  it,"  she  demurred. 

"  I  just  want  you  to  witness  how  I  finds  him," 
Mr.  Brown  urged  ;  "Josh  and  Judy  '11  have  to  go, 
too.M 

Mrs.  Binkin  paused  a  moment,  looking  out  of 
the  back  windows  through  the  dense  shade  of 
the  pecan-trees  to  where  the  river  flowed  so  peace- 
fully. 

44  Mrs.  Binkin?"  and  she  turned  to  find  Mr. 
Brown  looking  at  her  curiously.  She  started  a 
little,  then  gave  him  back  look  for  look,  and 
Brown,  turning  away,  said,  quietly  : 

"  Come,  Mis'  Binkin/'  and  she,  with  Josh  and 
Judy,  followed  him.  At  the  door  he  paused. 

44  You  mustn't  as  much  as  look  out  ther  winder, 
Miss  Milly,"  he  said,  4<  for  a  trial  might  come,  an* 
I  don't  want  you  called." 

44  Very  well,"  Milly  answered,  and  Mrs.  Binkin 
looked  at  him  gratefully ;  he  had  won  her  help 
now,  no  matter  what  happened. 

It  was  a  horrid  picture  they  paused  beside  in 
the  lane,  where  the  cows  were  still  moving  about 
and  pawing  up  the  dust — an  awful  picture.  But 
Mr.  Brown,  brushing  away  the  flies,  made  them 
look  at  it  as  it  was,  until  they  had  seen  where 
the  mouth  was  swollen,  as  from  a  blow  ;  and  the 
clothes  torn,  as  with  a  struggle ;  and  the  knife 
that  evidently  had  done  the  work  was  the  dead 
man's  own  knife.  They  could  all  prove  this,  for 
without  touching  it  or  moving  it  from  where  it 
lay  in  the  dust,  a  little  space  away  from  the 
-body,  all  covered  with  blood,  the  initials  "  B.  1-  . 

224 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

roughly  cut  in  the  handle,  were  plainly  visible. 
Further,  Mr.  Brown  looked  about  him  on  the 
ground  where  were  the  marks  of  the  struggle,  but 
any  marks  of  footsteps  leading  away  from  the 
spot  had  been  entirely  destroyed  by  the  cows. 
He  put  all  these  observations  down  in  a  little 
book,  for  Pecan  had  no  coroner,  and  then  sent 
Judy  for  Mr.  Perkins,  the  Fleishes'  minister,  who 
must  tell  the  news  to  the  family,  sent  Josh  for 
help  to  move  the  body,  and  asked  Mrs.  Binkin 
for  a  mattress  on  which  to  place  the  dead  man. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  quickly,  glad  of  the  excuse  to 
go,  for  she  was  sick  with  the  heat  of  the  sun  and 
the  awful  picture,  and  she  turned  away ;  but  at 
the  first  step  Mr.  Brown  laid  his  hand  on  her 
arm. 

"Where's  Tom  Conway  ?"  he  asked,  looking  her 
full  in  the  face. 

"  God  only  knows,"  she  answered,  without  hesi- 
tation, meeting  his  look  unshrinkingly.  "  God 
only  knows,"  she  repeated,  in  a  preoccupied  way ; 
for  Tom's  absence  was  a  darker  mystery  to  her 
than  it  possibly  could  be  to  any  one  else.  She 
knew  that  Tom  had  gone  in  search  of  Billy — and 
here  lay  Billy  dead  by  another  hand — and  Tom 
was  gone — where  was  he  ?  "  God  only  knows," 
she  once  more  repeated ;  then  realizing  that  Mr. 
Brown's  hold  had  not  relaxed,  nor  his  look  moved 
from  her  face,  she  became  angry. 

"  Tom  never  did  that,"  she  cried,  scornfully ; 
"he'd  never  have  any  scuffle  with  a  Fleish,  an'  if 
he  had  killed  Billy  Fleish  he  wouldn't  have  run 
p  225 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

any  more  than  if  he  had  killed  a  dog,  an'  you 
know  that,  Dave  Brown." 

Mr.  Brown  turned  away. 

"  There's  sumpen  in  that,  Mis'  Binkin ;  but 
then  who  done  it  ?" 

"That  '11  have  to  be  searched  after,"  she  an- 
swered, but  she  did  not  look  at  him  this  time. 

Swiftly  she  sped  with  her  heart  in  a  tumult. 
Dave  Brown's  close  observations  would  entirely 
verify  her  story  should  she  have  occasion  to  tell 
it,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  Forbes  entirely  in 
her  power ;  then — if  Dave  Brown  had  found  any 
footsteps  he  would  have  found  hers  !  And  her 
heart  seemed  almost  to  stop.  A  woman's  foot- 
steps found  just  then  and  there — what  would  the 
consequences  have  been  ?  She  hurried  along 
more  swiftly  still,  almost  running  now  as  another 
fear  rose  up  to  torment  her.  The  word  mattress 
had  made  her  remember  where  she  had  hidden 
Forbes's  clothes ;  she  must  put  them  somewhere 
else  that  was  safer.  Those  clothes  must  not  be 
found  nor  stolen.  She  felt  that  Forbes  distrusted 
her  quite  as  much  as  she  distrusted  him,  and 
would  take  them  if  he  could.  Entering  the 
house,  Mrs.  Binkin  put  the  clothes  hastily  into 
her  own  trunk,  which  she  always  kept  locked ; 
they  would  be  safe  there ;  then  she  hurried  into 
the  young  women's  room,  where  there  was  a 
small  bed,  and,  pulling  off  the  mattress,  she 
answered  the  questions  of  her  daughters,  who 
were  just  beginning  to  waken,  without  warn- 
ing. 

226 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

"I  want  the  mattress  for  Billy  Fleish,"  she 
said  ;  "he's  dead  out  there  in  the  lane." 

"  Dead  !"  they  screamed—"  Billy  Fleish  !"  but 
their  mother  was  gone,  dragging  the  mattress 
after  her.  Outside  she  folded  it,  throwing  it 
across  her  shoulder.  A  light  straw  thing  it  was, 
thin  and  hard,  but  answering  very  well  for  this 
sleep  that  Billy  Fleish  was  sleeping. 

Josh  met  her  half  way,  but  she  did  not  turn 
back  when  lightened  of  her  load,  for  she  felt  she 
must  be  at  hand  to  watch  every  development  of 
this  case.  She  was  bound  up  in  it,  tied  hard  and 
fast  by  the  past  and  by  the  knowledge  she  pos- 
sessed. 

She  watched  them  lay  the  dead  man  on  the 
mattress  with  his  hat  by  his  side  ;  she  had  dusted 
it  and  had  pulled  his  coat  straight ;  then,  while 
they  waited  for  Mr.  Perkins,  she  ran  home  again 
for  a  sheet  and  spread  it  over  all.  Dave  Brown 
watched  her  carefully,  but  could  make  nothing 
of  her ;  keen  as  he  was,  this  case  baffled  him. 
What  was  it  that  she  knew  of  this  murder,  and  v7 

why  would  she  not  tell?  And  when  Mr.  Perkins 
came,  and,  turning  away,  declined  to  look  at  the 
dead  man,  she  almost  laughed  in  her  scorn  of 
him. 

"He  couldn't  be  more  scared  if  he'd  done  it 
himself,"  she  said.  Had  she  done  it  ? 

She  walked  beside  Dave  Brown  as  they  followed 

the  little   procession  that  grew  as  it  advanced, 

and  as   each   new-comer  asked   one  unvarying 

question  when  he  or  she  heard  the  story,  so  Mrs. 

227 


MRS.   GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

Binkin  gave  one  unvarying  answer.  "Where's 
Tom  Conway?"  they  would  ask ;  then  Mrs.  Binkin 
would  say  to  them  what  she  had  said  to  Dave 
Brown,  and  Dave  Brown,  listening,  heard  how 
the  people  acquiesced  in  her  reasons.  More  than 
this,  as  the  crowd  grew  greater  he  heard  the 
men  repeating  Mrs.  Binkin's  reasons  convincingly 
to  their  fellows,  and  found  her  shining  black  eyes 
fixed  triumphantly  on  his.  What  did  it  mean  ? 
At  the  Fleishes'  the  scene  was  still  more  puzzling 
to  him,  for  'Reely,  rushing  out,  with  loud  cries, 
threw  herself  on  the  dead  body,  and  called  down 
curses  on  Tom  Conway — Tom,  who  had  come 
there  to  hunt  Billy,  and,  of  course,  Tom  had  found 
him  and  had  done  this  deed;  but  the  mother, 
half  dazed  and  stupid,  shook  her  head  as  she 
looked  down  on  her  son,  and  said,  slowly : 

"  Tom  Conway  never  done  it.  Billy  came  home 
after  Tom  was  gone,  an'  told  me  all  about  it." 

The  crowd  stood  mute  until,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  'Reely  sprang  forward,  seizing  her  mother's 
hands. 

"  Billy  did  come  home  after  Tom  was  gone," 
she  cried,  "  but  he  went  out  again,  and  then  Tom 
done  it ;"  but  the  mother  shook  her  head. 

"  Tom  never  done  it !"  she  persisted.  "  Tom 
never  done  it !" 

"  She's  gone  off  her  senses,"  and  'Reely  led  her 
into  the  house,  while  Bob  Fleish  and  his  father 
stood  vowing  vengeance  on  the  Conways. 

Mr.  Brown  could  make  nothing  of  it  at  all,  and 
Mrs.  Binkin  turned  away  weak  and  faint.     What 
228 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

did  the  mother  mean  ?  Had  Billy  killed  Tom  be- 
fore Forbes  and  he  met  ?  The  thought  was  absurd, 
of  course  it  was ;  but  this  charge  of  murder  that 
was  being  laid  at  Tom's  door  was  a  shameful 
thing,  and  she  longed  for  Tom  to  come  back  and 
put  an  end  to  it ;  if  things  went  much  further, 
she  would  give  Forbes  time  to  get  away  and  then 
tell-  her  story.  To  kill  a  man  was  one  thing,  but 
murder  like  this  was  quite  another,  and  Tom 
should  not  be  disgraced  by  such  a  charge. 

She  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  between  her  own 
house  and  the  Conways',  watching  at  one  place 
for  Tom,  and  at  the  other  trying  to  do  her  work ; 
and  as  the  hours  went  by  and  no  news  came,  the 
mystery  seemed  to  double  itself.  But  the  noon- 
day Sun  found  out  the  story  as  well  as  sight  could 
tell  it,  for  he  looked  on  Milly,  weary  with  watch- 
ing and  feigning  ;  on  Mrs.  Binkin,  once  more  fold- 
ing and  hiding  the  bloody  garments  ;  on  Billy 
Fleish,  dead  and  still ;  on  his  mother,  looking  at 
her  son's  pistol  to  see  where  the  two  empty  cham- 
bers proved  his  drunken  confession  ;  on  Forbes, 
walking  fast  and  far  through  the  long  afternoon, 
only  turning  his  face  home  again  when  the  sun 
was  setting ;  on  Tom  Conway,  lying  dead  in 
"Jenkins's  Washout."  The  Sun  found  it  all  be- 
tween his  rising  and  his  setting ;  and  the  Moon, 
who  had  seen  it  all,  came  after,  and  she  told 
it  to  the  Wind  that  went  rushing  by  across  the 
wide,  waste  plain,  stirring  the  bushes  that  hid 
Tom's  burial-place,  and  the  sheet  that  covered 
Billy  Fleish. 

229 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 


IV 

"  My  life  is  a  torn  book.     But  at  the  end 
A  little  page,  quite  fair,  is  saved — 

Which  I  shall  take  safe  up  to  Heaven  with  me." 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  Pecan  had  returned 
to  its  every-day  routine  ;  but  it  still  was  stirred 
by  the  late  excitement,  and  by  the  wonder  at 
Tom  Conway's  continued  absence. 

The  first  impression,  that  Tom  Conway  had 
not  killed  Billy  Fleish,  was  beginning  to  wear 
away.  So  much,  indeed,  had  opinion  already 
changed,  that  Mrs.  Binkin  was  horrified  by  hear- 
ing the  people  say  that  Tom  Conway  should  be 
hunted  for  and  tried.  Mr.  Brown,  meanwhile, 
questioned  everybody.  From  Josh  and  Judy  he 
found  that  Tom  had  ridden  away  in  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Fleish's  ranch.  "  So  it  Stan's  to  reason," 
Judy  added,  "  that  Marse  Tom  couldn't  'a'  killed 
Mr.  Billy  Fleish  in  the  lane."  From  'Reely  he 
gathered  that  Tom  had  come  to  the  house  from 
Mrs.  Gollyhaw's,  had  asked  for  Billy,  and  that 
about  two  hours  after  Billy  had  come  in,  had 
taken  a  drink,  and  had  gone  out  again,  saying  he 
was  going  to  Mrs.  Gollyhaw's.  From  his  own 
knowledge  Mr.  Brown  asserted  that  Billy  had  not 
come  to  the  Gollyhaws',  and  that  Tom  could  not 
have  killed  him  up  to  that  time,  and  so  prevented 
his  appearing,  for  in  that  case  Mr.  Forbes  and 
Milly  would  have  seen  the  body  in  the  lane  on 
230 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

their  way  home.  Old  Mrs.  Fleish  could  not  be 
made  to  speak.  Mrs.  Binkin  he  questioned  close- 
ly, but  could  only  persuade  her  to  admit  that  she 
had  promised  to  care  for  Milly  until  Tom  came 
back.  And  so  the  case  stood.  The  Fleishes  were 
furious,  and  'Reely  asserted  far  and  near  that  the 
Fleishes  "  worn't  to  be  killed  like  dogs,  an'  Mike 
would  pay  the  Conways  out."  And  Mike,  the 
eldest  son,  who  had  been  hastily  summoned,  came 
"  to  wait  for  the  Conway  boys,"  he  said,  with  quiet 
malignance. 

Meanwhile  Forbes  went  unnoticed.  No  one 
observed  how  pale  and  restless  he  grew;  how 
that  he  had  lost  all  his  self-absorbed  repose ;  none 
observed  save  Milly  and  Mrs.  Binkin,  and  Milly 
attributed  it  to  another  cause.  "He  suspects 
Tom  of  the  murder,"  she  thought,  "  and  so  avoids 
the  house  and  me,"  and  her  heart  grew  heavy. 

Up  to  the  time  of  "  Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  candy- 
stew  "  they  had  been  good  friends ;  since  then, 
since  his  avoidance  of  her,  a  knowledge  had 
come  to  her  that  made  her  life  a  burden.  She 
found  that  she  loved  Forbes,  loved  him  now, 
when  every  moment  she  was  losing  faith  in  him  ! 
For  this  man  did  not  trust  his  friend,  so  how 
could  she  trust  him?  And  she  hated  herself  for 
caring  for  a  man  who  could  suspect  Tom.  She 
saw  all  his  uneasiness,  all  his  restlessness,  and 
put  it  down  to  his  horror  of  what  had  happened. 
He  had  almost  ceased  coming  to  the  house,  and 
when  he  did  come,  it  was  across  the  fields,  and 
not  through  the  lane.  She  observed  all  this,  and 
231 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

also  that  he  avoided  Mrs.  Binkin,  that  he  seemed 
weary  and  sick ;  and,  looking  through  his  eyes, 
as  her  love  enabled  her  to  do,  the  crime,  passed 
over  so  quietly  by  the  town,  grew  more  horrible 
to  her  ;  but  her  faith  in  Tom  did  not  falter.  She 
grew  whiter  and  stiller,  as  the  days  went  on — days 
of  ceaseless  watching  from  her  high  windows 
until  her  eyes  would  ache  with  the  glare  of  light, 
or  riding  fast  and  far  across  the  plains  if  per- 
chance she  might  meet  her  brother. 

And  each  time  she  met  Forbes  she  would  reas- 
sert her  faith  and  belief,  looking  at  him  with  her 
dark  eyes  that  had  grown  bigger  and  pitifully  sad 
in  the  long,  uncertain  weeks  that  had  passed  since 
the  fatal  candy-stew. 

"  Tom  did  not  do  it,  Mr.  Forbes,"  she  would  say, 
"  and  I  am  sure  that  some  day  the  true  murderer 
will  be  found ;  Tom  would  not  have  hidden,  for 
he  is  not  a  coward." 

And  Forbes,  turning  away  with  an  irresistible 
shudder,  she  would  put  it  down  to  his  conviction 
of  Tom's  guilt. 

"  It  seems  more  awful  to  him  than  to  us,"  she 
said  more  than  once  to  Mrs.  Binkin,  and  the  de- 
cided answer,  "  That  is  true,"  would  confirm  her 
in  her  belief  of  Forbes's  sensitiveness  and  of  his 
faithlessness  to  Tom.  But,  outside,  Milly  was 
rather  envied  by  the  young  women  of  the  town 
as  being  the  centre  of  this  sensation,  and  the 
heroine  of  this  mystery  ;  for  everybody  knew 
that  out  of  his  love  for  her  came  Billy  Fleish's 
death.  He  had  been  warned  to  let  Milly  alone ; 
232 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

his  own  father  had  said,  "  Shootin*  was  too  good 
for  a  Fleish  that  cared  for  a  Conway." 

'Reely  repeated  this  many  times,  and  with  it 
Billy's  threat  that  "somebody  would  be  missin'" 
if  Milly  did  not  go  to  the  Gollyhaws'  with  him — 
repeated  both  these  speeches  that  had  been  so 
strangely  verified,  for  Billy  had  not  been  shot,  but 
stabbed,  and  two  were  missing  when  the  morn- 
ing came!  Pecan  revelled  in  this  marvellous 
fulfilment  of  the  forecasting. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Binkin's  contempt  for  Forbes 
grew  as.  she  saw  that  his  terror  increased.  Yet, 
when  she  stopped  to  think  of  it,  he  had  every 
reason  to  be  uneasy.  His  life  would  be  worthless 
if  the  Fleishes  knew  the  truth,  and,  further,  if  he 
did  not  love  Milly  she  had  put  a  hard  condition 
on  him.  Any  deeper  misery  for  Forbes  she  did 
not  realize,  for  she  had  lived  long  on  the  border, 
where  life  goes  almost  for  nothing.  She  could 
not  understand  the  awful  load  of  guilt  that  he 
felt.  She  could  not  know  the  sickening  horror 
he  had  for  the  white  moonlight,  nor  for  the  sound 
of  the  wind ;  she  could  not  know  of  the  dull 
hatred  for  herself,  for  Milly,  for  all  his  half-civil- 
ized surroundings  that  was  growing  up  hour  by 
hour  in  his  heart.  Her  only  thought  was  that  he 
feared  the  Fleishes,  that  he  feared  betrayal  by  her  ; 
of  the  despair  that  filled  his  days  and  nights,  that 
would  have  made  hanging  almost  a  boon,  of  this 
she  had  no  conception  ;  she  had  only  a  hard  con- 
tempt for  what  she  supposed  was  cowardice. 

Moral  codes  differ,  and  in  Pecan  fear  was  the 
233 


MRS.   GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

blackest  sin.  So  long  as  a  man  own  ed  his  misdeeds 
without  flinching,  just  so  long  the  people  made 
excuses  for  him,  but  no  longer,  and  this  was  one 
reason  for  the  half-hearted  sympathy  accorded 
the  Fleishes.  The  Fleishes  had  never  been  what 
Pecan  called  "fair  an'  squar',"  while  the  Conways 
had  been  daring  in  their  wrong-doing;  and  if 
Tom  Conway  had  ridden  into  Pecan  and  had 
declared  himself  Billy  Fleish's  murderer,  and, 
further,  that  he  had  been  waiting  for  the  chance 
because  he  believed  that  the  unknown  shots  that 
had  killed  his  father  and  brother  had  been  fired  by 
the  Fleishes,  the  sympathy  and  moral  support  of 
the  whole  town  would  have  gone  with  him ;  but 
failing  to  do  this,  Pecan  began  to  fear  that  her 
favorite  son  had  "  sneaked." 

Dave  Brown  did  not  believe  this,  and  said,  over 
and  over  again,  that  if  the  story  ever  came  to 
light  it  would  be  the  strangest  story  that  Pecan 
had  ever  heard.  And  Pecan  listened  to  him,  and 
was  willing  to  come  to  no  conclusion,  but  to 
abide  in  this  mystery  that  grew  deeper  and  more 
exciting,  while  Mike  Fleish  with  his  brother  and 
father  awaited  the  return  of  the  Conway  boys. 

At  last  on  one  hot  June  day  there  rode  into 
Pecan  a  man  who  had  been  on  the  same  drive 
with  the  Conways,  and  who  brought  the  news 
that  the  brothers  were  in  San  Antonio,  that  they 
had  heard  of  the  murder,  that  they  were  hunting 
for  Tom,  but  that,  whether  they  found  him  or 
not,  they  would  come  down  in  a  few  days  ready 
for  anything  !  The  town  was  in  a  stir,  the  talk 
234 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

buzzed  about  from  house  to  house,  growing  as  it 
went,  and  the  excitement  reached  a  height  never 
known  before.  One  or  the  other  faction  must  be 
"killed  off,"  or  must  surrender.  And  as  the 
truth  came  home  to  Forbes  he  was  terrified.  He 
could  avert  this  horrible  bloodshed.  Yes,  and 
Mrs.  Binkin  could  avert  it.  She,  who  loved  the 
Conways,  who  despised  him,  and  who  would  not 
heed  his  life  if  the  test  was  put  upon  her.  And 
the  higher  motive,  that  momentarily  had  been 
his,  was  buried  beyond  resurrection  under  the 
fear  of  her  betrayal. 

"This  is  horrible,"  he  said  to  Dave  Brown — 
"  horrible  that  these  men  should  kill  each  other 
for  nothing." 

"  It's  pretty  bad,"  Dave  admitted,  and  he  looked 
at  Forbes's  white  face  curiously. 

"  They  should  be  bound  over  to  keep  the 
peace,"  Forbes  went  on,  his  excitement  increas- 
ing. 

Dave  shook  his  head. 

"  If  I'd  tell  thet  on  you,  Mr.  Forbes,"  he  said, 
"the  boys  would  mob  you,  let  alone  what  else 
they'd  think  ;"  then  looking  away  across  the 
plain,  he  added,  "  the  only  way  is  to  find  the  mur- 
derer, an*  let  'em  fight  it  out  in  peace." 

But  Forbes's  unusual  proposition  did  leak  out, 
and  the  town  repudiated  the  suggestion  with 
scorn.  "A  fair  fight's  a  fair  fight,"  they  said, 
"  an'  it  was  better  to  hev  the  thing  done  an'  over 
with." 

Forbes  was  silenced,  Milly  sickened  with  dread, 
235 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

and  Mrs.  Binkin  was  furious.  "  It  was  foolish- 
ness to  say  that  the  Fleishes  would  have  to  be 
fair,"  she  declared,  "  for  they  did  not  know  what 
truth  or  honor  meant,  and  would  shoot  the  Con- 
ways  any  mean  chance  they  got." 

To  this  declaration  the  town  listened,  and  was 
forced  into  agreement ;  then  they  gathered  in 
consultation  on  the  subject,  while  Mrs.  Binkin 
went  home  in  despair.  She  shut  herself  in  her 
room  to  think,  and,  thinking,  she  unfolded 
Forbes's  clothes  and  looked  at  them.  The  crisis 
that  she  had  so  persistently  hoped  that  Tom 
would  be  there  to  avert  was  close  upon  her,  and 
something  must  be  done.  Was  she  to  sacrifice 
the  Conway  boys  for  this  poor  Forbes  ?  Never  ! 
A  decision  hastily  shaped  itself  ;  and,  rapidly 
folding  the  clothes  and  putting  them  once  more 
in  the  trunk,  she  rose  trembling  from  her  chair. 
The  school  term  was  over ;  she  would  warn 
Forbes,  give  him  two  days  to  escape,  and  then 
denounce  him.  This  would  save  Milly,  and  pre- 
vent further  bloodshed  between  the  Conways  and 
Fleishes.  What  mattered  it  what  they  did  to 
her  for  helping  the  murderer  to  escape.  She  was 
weary  of  life  anyhow,  and  Milly  would  care  for 
little  Mary.  Hurriedly  she  put  on  her  old  sun- 
bonnet,  and,  unlocking  the  door,  stepped  into  the 
hall ;  and  there,  as  if  come  to  do  her  bidding, 
there,  framed  in  the  open  front  door,  stood  Forbes, 
hat  in  hand,  pale  and  trembling.  She  stopped, 
drawing  a  short  breath  ;  then  he  came  one  step 
in  the  door. 

236 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,  Mrs.  Binkin,"  he 
faltered. 

"  Good-bye  ?"  she  repeated,  moving  slowly  tow- 
ards him,  "  good-bye  ?  This  is  sudden." 

"  Yes,"  withdrawing  the  hand  she  would  not 
take,  "  it  is  sudden,  but  it  cannot  be  helped." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  Well,  we'll  walk  a  little  piece 
an*  talk  about  it,"  and  she  preceded  him  from  the 
house  with  a  brave  front,  although  her  heart 
throbbed  with  fear  of  his  next  words.  Swift- 
ly she  walked,  and  Forbes  followed  her,  with  a 
red  flush  staining  his  face.  How  he  hated  this 
woman  ! 

She  kept  well  ahead  of  him  until  she  reached 
the  gate  ;  there  she  waited  for  him,  and,  once  out- 
side, began. 

"A  person's  always  safe  on  the  prairie,"  she 
said,  "  for  nobody  can  hide  an'  listen." 

"  Yes,"  Forbes  answered,  sullenly,  "  but  I  have 
nothing  to  say  except  good-bye." 

"  An'  *  God  bless  you/  "  she  answered,  scoffing- 
ly  ;  then  more  sharply,  "  but  /  have  something  to 
say.  How  about  Milly  Conway  ?" 

"  One  hour  ago  I  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

"Well?" 

"  She  refused." 

"  For  once  the  Lord  has  been  merciful !"  Mrs. 
Binkin  cried,  fervently,  and  paused  to  look  in 
the  young  man's  face  that  had  grown  so  thin  and 
old  in  the  past  few  weeks.  "For  once,"  she  re- 
peated, forgetting,  in  her  gladness  for  Milly's  de- 
liverance, as  she  now  felt  it  to  be,  that  Forbes, 
237 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S  CANDY-STEW 

having  kept  his  word,  left  her  powerless  to  tell  his" 
story,  and  so  to  stop  the  feud  between  the  Con- 
ways  and  the  Fleishes.  For  this  moment  she  was 
glad,  and  asked,  almost  eagerly,  "  An*  when  are 
you  goin' !" 

"  To-morrow  morning,"  he  answered,  promptly, 
with  a  little  anger  in  his  voice,  for  he  did  not 
understand  this  joy  over  his  refusal ;  and,  thank- 
ful as  he  was  for  his  freedom,  he  was  nettled, 
and  Mrs.  Binkins  saw  it. 

"An'  you're  mad,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  as 
she  walked  on  ;  "  you  thought  I  wanted  Milly  to 
marry  you." 

"  It  surely  seemed  so,"  Forbes  retorted. 

"  So  it  did  ;  an'  before  I  knew  you  I  did  want 
Milly  to  say  *  Yes,'  but  since  you  murdered  Billy 
Fleish— " 

Forbes  grasped  her  arm.  "  For  God's  sake, 
hush  !"  he  whispered,  turning  deadly  pale. 

Mrs.  Binkin  laughed.  "That's  just  it,"  she 
went  on,  quietly.  "  Since  that  night,  since  I've 
found  you  such  a  coward,  so  'fraid  of  what 
you've  done,  I  haven't  any  use  for  you."  Forbes 
listened  in  dumb  amazement.  Was  this  wom- 
an human  ?  "  There's  many  a  good  man  has 
killed  another,"  she  went  on,  pushing  her  long 
bonnet  back  a  little,  "sometimes  by  accident, 
sometimes  for  madness,  sometimes  because  they 
ought  to  die  ;  but  whatever  a  man  has  done, 
whether  he  has  killed  a  dog  or  a  Mexican,  or 
whether  he  has  killed  the  President,  let  him 
stand  up  to  it ;  but  you,"  turning  the  focus  of 
238 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

her  long  bonnet  full  upon  Forbes,  "  I  wouldn't 
trust  you  ;  I  believe  you'd  commit  a  cold  blooded 
murder."  The  young  man  shrank  back,  while 
his  teeth  chattered  as  one  in  a  death  chill. 

"You  have  no  right — "  he  began,  tremulously, 
but  Mrs.  Binkin  interrupted  him. 

"Yes,  I  have  the  right,  because  I  have  the 
power  ;  *  might  makes  right,'  you  know,  especial- 
ly in  the  hands  of  a  woman,  and  I  want  you  to 
understand  a  few  things  before  I  give  you  your 
clothes.  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  despise 
you,  an'  I  want  you  to  understand  that  before 
you  leave  this  town  you've  got  to  tell  why  you're 
goin'." 

"  Impossible  !"  the  young  man  cried. 

"  There  you  are  again,"  and  this  time  Mrs.  Bin- 
kin's  voice  had  grown  angry,  "  scared  to  death  ! 
I  mean  only  for  you  to  tell  the  folks  that  you 
can't  live  in  the  same  town  with  Milly" — a  great 
scorn  coming  into  her  voice — "an'  that  she  will 
not  have  you  ;  you  must  tell  that." 

"I  cannot!" 

"  Then  you'd  better  leave  Pecan  this  minute  " — 
calmly — "  for  I'll  walk  right  straight  on  to  Dave 
Brown's  office,  an'  be  glad  to  do  it,  for  that  will 
save  any  fight  between  the  Conways  and  Fleishes. 
I  don't  often  break  my  word,  but  you  are  not 
worth  keeping  faith  with  ;  you've  asked  Milly, 
an'  that  was  all  the  bargain,  but  you've  got  to  do 
this,  too." 

"  My  God  !"  And  she  heard  him  grind  his 
teeth. 

239 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

"  You'd  like  to  kill  me,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Mrs.  Binkin  laughed.  "I  like  you  better  for 
that,"  she  said.  "That's  honest,  an'  I'm  as  sorry 
as  you  are  that  my  time  has  not  come  yet. 
Meanwhile  you  go  to  old  Mrs.  Brown's  to  say 
good-bye,  an'  let  her  know  the  reason  you're 
goin' ;  and  that  '11  do,  for  you  know" — smil- 
ing— "she'll  be  so  glad  to  tell  it  to  bother  Mrs. 
Gollyhaw,  who  tries  to  make  people  think  you 
like  Lorena  -  Dora.  I'm  goin'  to  the  Fleishes', 
an'  after  that  I'll  stop  at  Mrs.  Brown's  to  hear 
the  news  of  you  ;  then  I'll  go  to  see  Milly  an* 
hear  the  truth" — with  a  meaning  pause — "an* 
if  all  has  gone  to  suit  me,  I'll  bring  the  clothes 
to-night ;  do  you  know  how  many  pieces  there 
were?" 

Forbes  started.  She  could  cheat  him,  after 
all! 

"Collar,  and  cuffs,  and  shirt,"  pausing  doubt- 
fully. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Binkin  answered,  understanding 
fully  his  tone  and  manner,  "  that's  right ;  but  I'll 
be  honest  with  you  :  there's  a  handkerchief,  too, 
with  your  full  name  on  it,  an'  all  the  marks  where 
you  wiped  your  hands." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  heat  of  the  sun ;  perhaps 
it  was  the  slow  torture  he  had  been  put  through; 
perhaps  it  was  the  horrid  picture  her  cool  words 
brought  up  ;  but  he  reeled  and  would  have  fallen 
but  for  her  strong  arm.  He  leaned  against  her 
for  a  moment,  until  the  world  once  more  stood 
240 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

still ;  then  he  walked  to  a  tree  near  by  and  rest- 
ed against  its  trunk. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "an1 
when  you  get  to  Mrs.  Brown's  you  ask  for  a  glass 
of  wine  ;  she'll  be  proud  to  show  she's  got  it." 
She  paused  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the  young 
man  who  leaned  against  the  tree  with  the  hope- 
less despair  of  his  heart  fully  revealed  on  his 
face.  "I'm  sorry  for  you,"  she  repeated,  "but 
I'll  tell  you  that  you've  got  luck  with  you  yet. 
You  just  saved  yourself  this  mornin'.  I  was  on 
my  way  to  tell  you  to  run.  I  was  goin'  to  give 
you  two  days,  an'  then  I  was  goin'  to  tell  the 
truth  about  Billy  Fleish,  an'  stop  this  row.  Now 
I'll  have  to  stop  it  some  other  way." 

At  that  moment  Forbes  felt  inclined  to  go  to 
Dave  Brown  himself,  but  the  next  words  cheered 
him  in  some  undefined  way. 

"  I'll  have  to  find  some  other  way,"  the  woman 
repeated,  "  for  your  luck's  with  you  yet."  Then 
she  turned  away.  "  I'll  bring  your  things  over 
to-night — you'll  find  them  under  the  clean  clothes 
in  the  basket  —  an'  remember  that  I've  saved 
your  life,  young  man,  for  if  I'd  told  Tom  Con- 
way  what  I  began  to  think  a  month  ago,  that 
you  intended  to  slight  his  sister,  your  funeral 
would  have  been  forgotten  by  now.  Good-bye." 
And  she  left  him. 

Straight  and  tall  in  her  always  limp  black  frock 
and  long  black  bonnet,  a  moving  line  in  the 
white  glare  of  sunlight,  unlovely,  angular,  with  a 
long,  plodding  stride  like  a  man,  she  moved  away, 

Q  241 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

and  Forbes  watched  her  with  a  great  hatred  in 
his  heart. 

There  was  no  hesitation  in  Mrs.  Binkin's  walk 
nor  in  her  manner,  but  in  her  heart  there  were 
many  fears  and  doubts.  She  could  not  now  de- 
nounce Forbes,  and  how  else  was  she  to  stop  this 
bloodshed  that  was  so  imminent?  If  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  she  could  tell  Dave  Brown 
her  story,  suppressing  names,  and  meanwhile  she 
held  one  weapon  that  could  be  tried  against  the 
Fleishes.  In  the  past  there  had  been  transac- 
tions between  her  husband  and  the  Fleishes  that 
would  even  now,  if  proved,  put  them  in  the  peni- 
tentiary. She  had  no  proofs,  but  she  need  not 
tell  the  Fleishes  that.  And  she  stood  still  in  the 
hot  sun  to  think.  Yes,  she  would  try  these 
threats  ;  maybe  she  could  drive  them  away  from 
the  town,  but  she  must  be  very  careful,  for  if  this 
failed  she  had  only  the  hope  that  her  unsupported 
word  would  clear  Tom  Conway  of  the  murder,  for 
she  could  not  compromise  Forbes.  She  did  not 
know  what  the  law  could  do  to  her  for  suppress- 
ing the  name  of  the  criminal,  but  she  could  bear 
that.  She  laughed  a  little.  What  was  it  that  she 
could  not  bear  ?  Straight  on  she  walked,  up  the 
front  path  and  into  the  Fleishes*  house  without 
question  or  permission,  into  the  front  room  where 
she  heard  voices.  They  were  all  there,  and 
startled  glances  passed  between  them  as  she 
stalked  in.  She  saw  it  all,  and  guessed  rightly 
that  she  had  caught  them  plotting.  She  took  off 
her  bonnet,  giving  one  swift  glance  to  right  and 
242 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

left,  then  stopped  in  front  of  the  father.  No 
greetings  passed  between  them ;  her  attack  was 
made  without  warning. 

"  You  an'  Mike  and  Bob  are  waitin'  for  the 
Conways,"  she  began,  "but  I've  got  something 
to  say  that  '11  change  things."  She  paused  to 
catch  her  breath,  and  in  the  pause  Mrs.  Fleish 
crept  round  behind  her  husband's  chair  and 
leaned  there,  watching  Mrs.  Binkin  in  a  scared, 
fascinated  way.  "  The  murder  of  Billy  Fleish  is 
not  the  only  crime  that's  been  done  in  Pecan  that 
I  know  of,"  she  went  on,  with  a  glance  round  the 
startled  circle.  "Jim  Conway,  the  father,  was 
shot  by  an  unknown  hand,"  pointing  her  bony 
finger  in  the  old  man's  face,  "  an'  Jack  Conway, 
his  son,  was  shot  by  an  unknown  hand — so  people 
say,  but  /  know — yes,  an'  can  prove  it." 

"An' why  didn't  you  tell  that  long  ago,"  'Reely 
struck  in,  scornfully,  "  when  you  love  the  Con- 
ways  so  much  an'  hates  the  Fleishes  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  hate  the  Fleishes,"  turning  savagely 
on  the  girl,  "an'  I  didn't  keep  it  to  save  them. 
My  little  Mary  " — her  voice  softened — "  had  been 
very  near  to  death,  but  she  had  come  back  to  me, 
and  it  was  not  in  my  heart  to  take  another 
woman's  child  from  her,"  and  she  looked  at  the 
mother,  whose  frightened  eyes  grew  wet  with 
tears ;  "  but  I  can  go  to  Dave  Brown  now,  an* 
you,  old  Bill,  an'  Mike  will  be  locked  up  before 
night." 

"  Not  so  sure,"  Mike  answered,  carelessly,  even 
though  his  face  grew  deadly  white. 
243 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S    CANDY-STEW 

Mrs.  Binkin,  standing  with  her  arms  akimbo, 
laughed  disagreeably.  "  I'll  make  you  sure,"  she 
retorted — "  I'll  make  you  sure,  Mike  Fleish.  Who 
broke  into  Dave  Brown's  shop  ?" 

The  young  man  started,  but  he  answered,  boldly, 
"  Your  husband." 

"That's  true!"  she  flashed  back,  "and  that's 
why  I've  got  the  whole  thing  in  my  hands.  Joe 
Binkin's  dead  now,  but  Mike  Fleish  ain't,  and 
there's  a  penitentiary  in  Texas." 

The  young  man  walked  to  the  window  and  back, 
uneasily.  "And  you'd  tell?"  he  asked,  stopping 
in  front  of  her. 

"  Yes,  and  give  Dave  my  house  and  lot  for  Joe's 
part  of  the  stealin'.  I  tell  you  my  turn  has  come 
now,"  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  father,  "  and  I  won't 
stop  at  anything  that  '11  hurt  you  Fleishes.  You 
know  how  I  hate  you  !"  striking  lightly  the  old 
man's  shoulder.  "  You  kidnapped  me,  a  helpless 
orphan,  away  from  life  and  love  long  ago,  and 
gave  me  helpless  into  the  devil's  own  keeping — 
you  know  how  I  hate  you  !" 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  slowly,  "  I  know."  Then  a  silence  fell. 

No  word  had  been  said  of  compromise,  no  sug- 
gestion had  been  made  as  to  the  Fleishes  retiring, 
and  Mrs.  Binkin  had  used  almost  every  threat  at 
her  command.  She  stood  quite  still  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room  with  her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  her 
long  arms  hanging  straight  down  at  her  sides, 
and  her  gloomy,  pondering  eyes  fixed  on  the  old 
man.  Mike  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  win- 
244 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

dow,  looking  out  across  the  shadowless  prairie ; 
'Reely  sat  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her 
chin  in  her  hands ;  Bob  whittled  a  stick,  looking 
down  on  the  floor ;  while  the  mother,  leaning  on 
the  back  of  her  husband's  chair,  watched  Mrs. 
Binkin.  The  flies  buzzed  about  with  a  ceaseless 
hum,  the  sun  came  with  hot,  unshaded  glare 
through  the  front  windows,  the  wind  went  rat- 
tling by,  and  far,  very  far,  came  the  sound  of  the 
incoming  train.  The  dull  sounds  wandered  about 
Mrs.  Binkin  as  she  stood  in  the  midst  of  her  ene- 
mies, sounds  that  held  no  meaning  for  her ;  yet 
she  listened  a  moment,  while  a  feeling  of  despera- 
tion gathered  in  her  heart,  for  now  she  must  say 
her  last  words. 

"  Only  one  more  thing  I've  got  to  say,"  she 
began,  slowly,  lifting  her  head  with  an  air  of  de- 
termination, "  then  I'm  going  to  Dave  Brown" — 
an  uneasy  stir  went  through  her  audience,  and 
all  eyes  were  bent  on  her — "  an'  that  one  thing  is, 
that  Tom  Conway  didn't  kill  Billy  Fleish."  Her 
voice  was  decided,  and  her  stern  look  falling  by 
chance  on  the  mother,  she  stopped  with  half- 
parted  lips,  for  the  woman's  face  had  changed  so 
strangely — what  ailed  her  ?  But  only  for  a  mo- 
ment Mrs.  Binkin  paused;  then  she  went  on,  while 
she  watched  closely  the  terrified  face  before  her, 
"  For  I  know  who — "  But  that  was  all.  There  was 
a  heart-rending  cry  and  a  heavy  fall,  then  cries 
and  exclamations  as  Mrs.  Fleish's  children  gath- 
ered round  where  she  lay. 

"She's  fainted,"  'Reely  said  ;  "take  her  to  the 
245 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

bed."  But  the  father  did  not  go  with  them,  and 
Mrs.  Binkin  did  not  move.  The  certainty  had 
come  to  her  that  this  woman  knew  more  about 
the  story  even  than  she  did. 

Presently  Mike  came  back.  "  Mar's  all  right," 
he  said ;  then  looking  Mrs.  Binkin  full  in  the  face, 
he  added,  sullenly,  "  We'll  not  wait  for  the  Con- 
ways,  Mrs.  Binkin ;  we'll  all  go  to  -  night,  'cept 
Mar  and  'Reely." 

Mrs.  Binkin's  eyes  grew  keener.  "So  she's 
told  you,  has  she?"  she  hazarded. 

Mike  started  a  little.  "  She's  sick,  an*  off  her 
head,"  he  answered  ;  "  she  can't  go." 

"  An'  if  she  stays  she'll  tell  all  she  knows,"  Mrs. 
Binkin  struck  in,  mercilessly,  watching  closely 
the  face  before  her,  while  a  startled  look  swept 
over  it.  "An'  I'm  going  to  Dave  Brown,"  she 
continued,  "  an'  tell  him  all  I  know  ;  there's  too 
many  crimes  on  you  to  stand  you  any  longer." 

Mike  grasped  her  arm,  and  the  old  man  started 
up.  "We're  goin' !"  they  cried. 

Mrs.  Binkin  laughed.  "  I  know  that,"  she  said ; 
"  I  knew  you'd  have  to  go  when  I  got  ready, 
but  I'm  thinking  if  I  ought  to  leave  you  loose 
in  Texas." 

The  men  before  her  looked  at  each  other  in 
despair.  "  We'll  promise  anything,"  Mike  said  ; 
then  his  lips  were  so  dry  and  tremulous  that  he 
stopped  for  a  moment,  only  going  on  by  a  great 
effort,  "I'll  swear,  Mrs.  Binkin,  I'll  swear  we'll 
never  touch  a  Conway  ;  I'll  swear  we'll  never 
come  back  to  Pecan ;  I'll  swear  we'll  sell  every 
246 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

blessed  thing  we're  got  in  Pecan,  or  near  it ;  I'll 
swear  it." 

Mrs.  Binkin  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  si- 
lence, her  eyes  shining  and  dilating  with  the  tri- 
umph of  this  victory  that  had  been  gained  almost 
by  chance. 

"Before  God?"  she  said,  holding  up  her  hand, 
"  before  God  ?" 

"  Before  God !"  Mike  answered,  holding  up  his 
hand  in  his  turn  ;  then  the  tremulous  hand  of  the 
old  man  was  lifted  also.  For  a  moment  they 
stood  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  then  the  wom- 
an clasped  her  hands  above  her  head,  and  her 
face  was  lifted. 

"  At  last !"  she  whispered — "  at  last  my  enemies 
are  under  my  feet;  at  last  I  have  driven  them 
from  the  land  they  cursed ;  at  last  their  sins  have 
found  them  out !"  Then  she  turned  swiftly  and 
left  the  room  and  house. 

The  next  morning  Pecan  felt  as  if  swept  from 
its  bearings,  and  all  work  stopped  that  things 
might  be  properly  realized  and  discussed.  For 
through  the  early  morning  blow  after  blow  fell 
in  quick  succession  upon  the  astonished  senses 
of  the  people.  First,  the  astounding  news  that 
the  Fleishes  had  gone,  had  "  cleared  out  bag  and 
baggage  "  on  the  midnight  train,  the  women  only 
being  left  because  Mrs.  Fleish  had  had  a  stroke 
of  paralysis.  Then,  that  Mr.  Forbes  had  given 
up  the  school  and  had  left  on  the  early  morning 
train,  telling  old  Mrs.  Brown  that  it  was  because 
Milly  Conway  would  not  marry  him  ;  and  last, 
247 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

as  if  to  crown  the  thrilling  budget,  Dave  Brown 
announced  openly  that  he  had  proof  that  Tom 
Conway  did  not  murder  Billy  Fleish ! 

Pecan  listened,  fumed,  boiled  up  and  over ;  then 
realizing  that  with  the  departure  of  the  Fleishes 
the  feud  that  had  been  the  life  of  the  town  was 
ended,  it  collapsed ;  the  life  and  reason  of  being 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  gone  out  of  everything, 
and  Pecan  turned  in  wrath  and  disappointment, 
and  poured  its  contempt  on  the  name  of  Fleish. 

Three  years  passed  that  brought  many  changes 
to  Pecan.  Milly  Conway,  marrying  a  clergyman, 
went  away  to  the  Eastern  States,  after  which  her 
brothers  scattered.  The  Binkin  girls  also  mar- 
ried, one  of  them  becoming  Mrs.  Perkins.  After 
this  'Reely  Fleish  eloped  with  an  unsuspected 
stranger,  and  Mrs.  Binkin  sent  for  Bob  Fleish  to 
come  and  take  his  forsaken  mother  away. 

It  was  pitiful  when  the  poor  creature  wept  and 
wailed,  and  pleaded  to  be  left  in  her  old  home. 
In  these  three  years  her  life  had  been  free  from 
fears  and  curses,  and  she  dreaded  going  back  to 
the  old  troubled  existence.  She  clung  to  Mrs. 
Binkin  who  was  with  her,  and  who  in  her  victory 
had  been  merciful  to  this  poor  wreck.  "  Keep 
me,"  she  pleaded  ;  "I'm  so  tired!"  Mrs.  Binkin's 
face  worked  strangely. 

"  Keep  me,"  the  feeble  voice  went  on,  "  the 
boys  will  pay  you,  and  I'll  not  trouble  you  long. 
Oh,  Milly  Withers,  I'm  so  tired  !"  The  poor  im- 
becile had  gone  back  to  the  names  of  her  youth, 
and  the  sound  made  the  woman  who  stood  by 
248 


MRS.  GOLLYHAW'S   CANDY-STEW 

her  tremble  a  little.  Milly  Withers  would  have 
been  merciful.  There  was  a  moment's  pause 
while  the  poor  creature  moaned  with  her  face 
hidden  on  Mrs.  Binkin's  shoulder,  and  Bob  stood 
watching  them  curiously.  Suddenly  the  moans 
ceased,  and  the  sick  woman  raised  her  head  with 
a  quivering  flush  on  her  wasted  face,  for  she  felt 
Mrs.  Binkin's  arm  steal  about  her. 

"I'll  keep  you,"  the  deep  voice  said,  and  the 
quiet  words  that  told  of  a  hard-won  victory,  that 
healed  the  hurt  of  all  the  years,  seemed  to  echo 
and  re-echo  all  about  them.  "  I'll  keep  you,"  and 
peace  came  into  her  life  at  last. 

And  at  Mrs.  Fleish's  death  a  strange  story  was 
told  to  Dave  Brown,  with  only  Mrs.  Binkin  for 
witness,  a  story  that  could  not  be  proved,  for 
"Jenkins's  Washout"  had  been  filled  in  for  a  rail- 
road cutting.  But  through  all  these  chances  and 
changes  Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  ambition  was  gratified, 
for  Mrs.  Gollyhaw's  candy-stew  remained  one  of 
the  most  important  epochs  of  Pecan,  since  it  was 
on  that  night  that  Tom  Conway  disappeared  and 
a  lasting  mystery  was  given  into  the  hands  of  the 
town. 


BALDY 


BALDY 


BEFORE  the  war,  before  Miss  Maria  left  her 
home  as  a  refugee,  Baldy  was  one  of  the  delights 
of  Kingshaven.  He  was  very  fat  and  sleek  and 
slow,  and  was  nicknamed  "  Baldy  "  because  of  the 
absence  of  hair  on  his  tail.  This  horse  was  the 
property  of  Miss  Maria  Cathcart,  and  from  hav- 
ing been  the  pride  of  her  life,  he  had,  in  con- 
sequence of  this  vexatious  affliction,  become  a 
source  of  the  deepest  mortification. 

His  real  name  was  " Prince";  then,  because  of 
his  slowness,  the  young  people  dubbed  him  "  Jog/' 
for  they  declared  that  though  Miss  Maria  thought 
he  was  going,  because  she  saw  Daddy  Jack  hold- 
ing the  reins  and  because  she  saw  the  horse  mov- 
ing, Prince  was  in  reality  only  quietly  jumping 
up  and  down  in  the  same  place. 

Miss  Maria  was  indignant,  and  old  Jack  was 
insulted,  and  looked  the  other  way  whenever  he 
drove  past  the  houses  or  carriages  of  these  re- 
vilers.  But  Jog  the  horse  was  called  until  the 
hair  began  to  drop  out  of  his  tail ;  then  Baldy 
became  his  universal  appellation. 
253 


BALDY 

This  horse  was  one  of  the  loves  of  old  Jack's 
life,  so  to  him  the  misfortune  that  was  overtak- 
ing Baldy's  tail  was  a  deep  grief,  and  he  tried 
every  known  and  many  unknown  remedies  on 
the  offending  member.  To  make  one  infallible 
salve  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  go  to  the  old 
church -yard  alone  at  twelve  o'clock  on  a  Fri- 
day night  in  the  dark  of  the  moon  to  gather 
"rabbit  tobacco,"  which  was  a  chief  ingredient. 
But  nothing  seemed  to  stop  the  awful  devasta- 
tion, and  at  last  Baldy  became  such  a  mirth-pro- 
voking spectacle  that  Miss  Maria  felt  that  he 
must  be  replaced.  But  how  was  she  to  tell  Jack 
this? 

Her  nephew,  who  was  looking  for  a  safe  horse 
for  her,  roared  with  laughter  at  the  thought  of 
her  hesitation. 

"  Why,  what  can  Jack  say  or  do,  Aunt  Maria  ?" 

"Of  course  nothing"  Miss  Maria  answered. 
"  But  it  will  be  a  dreadful  blow  to  him,  Charles, 
a  dreadful  blow  !" 

"  I'll  call  him  and  tell  him  at  once,"  Mr.  St. 
Clair  said. 

"  No,  oh  no !"  and  Miss  Maria  raised  both 
hands  and  shook  her  head.  "Don't  tell  him 
suddenly.  Poor  Jack  !  he  still  hopes  to  cure  the 
affliction." 

After  Mr.  St.  Clair  had  gone,  Miss  Maria  began 
walking  up  and  down  her  long,  deep  piazza,  with 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her.  It  would  have 
been  better,  perhaps,  to  have  let  Charles  tell  Jack, 
she  thought ;  even  trusted  servants  like  Jack 
254 


BALDY 

could  sometimes  be  very  disagreeable,  and  Jack 
was  obstinate,  very  obstinate  indeed.  Her  cousin 
Polly  Bullen  said  that  she  spoiled  her  servants. 
The  idea  of  Polly  Bullen  saying  such  a  thing, 
Polly,  whose  negroes  were  notoriously  lazy  and 
pampered,  as  Tremelstoune  negroes  had  always 
been !  No,  on  reflection  she  was  glad  that  she 
had  not  allowed  Charles  to  tell  the  news  to  Jack ; 
that  would  have  looked  as  if  what  her  cousin 
Polly  Bullen  said  was  true ;  she  would  tell  Jack 
herself ;  she  would  call  him  in  at  once. 

She  walked  briskly  through  the  house  to  the 
back  piazza,  but  she  paused  there.  Under  the 
big  live-oak  tree  that  shaded  the  whole  stable- 
yard  she  saw  Baldy  tied,  and  behind  him  stood 
old  Jack,  platting  carefully  the  few  hairs  that  re- 
mained of  his  tail.  The  old  man  was  completely 
absorbed  in  his  task ;  his  big  fingers  moved  as 
carefully  as  if  handling  spam  glass,  and  at  each 
movement  of  the  horse,  if  it  were  only  a  twitch- 
ing of  the  skin,  he  paused,  so  fearful  was  he  lest 
any  sudden  motion  should  loosen  even  one  hair ! 
When  all  was  done,  Jack  stood  off  with  his  head 
a  little  on  one  side,  and  looked  at  the  spindling 
braid  contemplatively.  Was  it  less  than  yester- 
day ?  He  raised  it  once  more  and  looked  at  the 
ends ;  again  he  let  it  go  out  of  his  hands  slowly, 
almost  reverently.  Would  it  be  better  to  leave 
it  hanging,  he  pondered,  or  should  he  wrap  it  up 
again  ? 

A  fly  buzzed  by.  Jack  started ;  Baldy  might 
use  it  on  flies  !  Might  try  to  switch  flies  with  it, 
255 


BALDY 

and  all  might  go  !  The  thought  made  him  al- 
most reckless  in  his  movements  as  he  began 
rapidly  to  fold  up  the  thin  queue  and  to  wrap  it 
in  a  bandage  of  red  flannel.  When  it  was  safe 
he  stood  looking  at  it  with  an  "  I've-done-my- 
best "  air,  that  was  little  short  of  tragic. 

Miss  Maria  turned  away  in  silence,  and  went 
back  to  the  front  piazza. 

It  was  a  pleasant  day,  with  the  wind  rippling 
the  broad  expanse  of  water  in  front,  and  touch- 
ing into  motion  the  waves  of  silver  hair  on  Miss 
Maria's  peaceful  brow,  and  the  tiny  frills  of  white 
muslin  that,  lying  one  upon  another,  formed  a 
soft,  close  border  around  her  face.  She  looked 
out  at  the  water,  then  down  on  the  garden,  where 
under  the  hot  sun  the  flowers  were  giving  out 
sweet  odors.  It  was  indeed  a  pleasant  day,  and 
one  that  she  could  have  enjoyed  thoroughly  and 
peacefully,  save  for  the  annoyance  caused  by 
Jack  and  that  poor  horse's  tail.  It  was  ridiculous 
the  feeling  Jack  had,  perfectly  ridiculous,  and  she 
could  not  stand  it  any  longer.  The  horse  looked 
too  droll  for  anything ;  of  course  people  would 
laugh — they  could  not  help  it ;  that  barrel  body 
on  four  legs,  with  no  tail  to  balance  the  head, 
was  ludicrous  and  undignified,  and  she  could  not 
be  made  the  laughing-stock  of  the  town.  She 
had  not  betrayed  that  she  minded  it,  but  she 
did,  and  this  very  afternoon  while  out  driving 
she  would  tell  Jack  that  it  was  for  the  last 
time.  Yes,  she  would  tell  him  this  very  after- 
noon; it  would  be  a  better  time  than  now, 
256 


BALDY 

when  he  was  so  intent  on  the  very  thing  in 
question. 

When  the  hour  for  driving  came,  she  gave  the 
order  for  the  carriage  more  sternly  than  usual, 
and  when  she  said  to  Kizzy,  "  Take  off  my  cap, 
and  bring  my  bonnet  and  mantilla,"  there  was 
such  determination  in  both  voice  and  eye  that 
Kizzy  wondered  a  little,  and  moved  more  quickly 
than  usual. 

Old  Jack  did  not  look  happy  when  he  drove 
round  to  the  front  door,  for  even  though  Baldy's 
tail  was  streaming  in  the  wind,  it  made  no  show 
at  all,  and  gave  no  sign  of  the  care  bestowed  on  it. 

"  Wey  you  gwine,  missis  ?"  he  asked,  when, 
having  shut  Miss  Maria  into  the  little  carriage, 
he  had  taken  his  own  seat.  "Muss  I  dribe  roun' 
Pigeon  P'int,  m'am  ?" 

"  No,"  Miss  Maria  answered,  firmly ;  "  drive 
round  the  bay  and  out  on  the  shell  road.1' 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  as  the  front 
windows  of  the  carriage  were  open,  Miss  Maria, 
who  was  on  the  same  level  with  Jack,  could  see 
that  he  had  not  gathered  up  the  reins. 

"  Round  the  bay  and  out  on  the  shell  road, 
Jack,  to  the  Cottage/'  she  repeated.  "  Don't 
you  hear  me?" 

"  Yes,  missis." 

"Well?" 

"  Miss  'Ria,  if  we  go  roun'  de  bay,  m'am,"  Jack 

answered,  slowly,  "  enty  you  know  say  we  gwine 

pass  Mass  John  house  wey  awl  dem  chillun  gwine 

laugh   at  we ;  en  we   gwine   pass   Mass    George 

R  257 


BALDY 

Bullen  house,  en  awl  dem  is  gwine  laugh  at  we ; 
en  awl  dem  turrer  house,  same  fashi'n  ;  en  I  know 
say  unner  ain't  gwine  like  dat" 

u  Jack,  your  business  is  to  obey!"  Miss  Maria 
commanded.  "I  am  shocked  that  you  should 
speak  in  this  way  !  Drive  on  !" 

Slowly,  and  with  protest  in  every  movement, 
Jack  gathered  up  the  reins ;  then  drawing  his  in- 
finite lips  into  a  knot,  he  made  a  sound  that 
caused  Baldy  to  move  off. 

Miss  Maria  sat  very  erect  in  the  carriage,  with 
the  expression  of  determination  which  had  quick- 
ened Kizzy's  steps  grown  strong  on  her  face. 
Jack  had  now  given  her  a  very  good  opportunity 
for  telling  him  of  her  intentions  with  regard  to 
the  horse.  She  could  scold  him  for  speaking  to 
her  in  such  a  disrespectful  way,  and  show  him 
how  his  bad  behavior  was  the  cause  of  her  order- 
ing another  animal.  A  very  good  opportunity. 
And  alone  as  she  was,  Miss  Maria  shook  her  head, 
and  reared  it  back  to  emphasize  her  thoughts. 
For  the  present  moment,  however,  she  was  her- 
self too  deeply  interested  in  watching  the  effect 
of  her  own  progress  through  the  town  to  begin 
her  sermon  ;  there  would  be  a  plenty  of  time  for 
that  once  they  were  beyond  the  limits. 

First  they  would  pass  the  St.  Glairs',  her  sister's 
family ;  yes,  there  they  were,  and  of  course  laugh- 
ing !  A  faint  color  came  on  her  faded  cheeks, 
and  a  light  that  was  not  faint  came  into  her 
bright  blue  eyes.  She  sat  very  straight  indeed, 
but  no  one  got  the  benefit  of  her  dignity,  be- 
258 


BALDY 

cause  it  was  a  close  little  square  carriage  with 
glasses  only  over  the  doors  and  in  front  between 
her  and  the  coachman,  and  though  they  were 
now  all  open,  an  outsider  could  have  no  view  of 
any  one  on  the  back  seat.  Miss  Maria,  however, 
had  a  full  view  of  Jack's  profile,  for  he  turned 
his  head  away  from  the  houses,  and  looked  out 
across  the  river.  His  expression  was  extremely 
sullen,  and  Miss  Maria  began  to  feel  provoked 
with  him.  It  was  high  time  she  got  a  new  horse, 
if  only  to  teach  Jack  a  lesson  ;  he  really  behaved 
as  if  he  owned  the  horse  ! 

Now  they  were  passing  George  Bullen's  house  ; 
yes,  here  again  she  saw  all  the  young  people 
laughing  !  And  even  if  she  had  gone  round 
Pigeon  Point  she  would  have  had  to  pass  her 
cousin  Polly  Bullen's,  and  all  Cicely  Selwyn's 
children  would  have  been  there  laughing.  Really, 
the  manners  of  the  rising  generation  needed 
mending  ;  nothing  was  safe  from  their  ridicule. 
A  misfortune  such  as  had  befallen  her  horse 
ought  not  to  make  her  a  laughing-stock  ;  they 
should  remember  that  it  way  a  misfortune. 

Yes,  and  the  William  Caryls  were  just  getting 
into  their  carriage,  and  they  were  smiling ;  it  was 
intolerable — really  intolerable  !  Of  course  if  she 
had  gone  by  Pigeon  Point  she  would  have  escaped 
much  of  this,  but  she  could  not  have  respected 
herself. 

They  would  soon  be  through  the  town  now, 
and  then  by  to-morrow  afternoon  she  would 
have  a  new  horse.  She  would  almost  have  con- 
259 


BALDY 

sented  to  a  prancing  steed,  if  by  such  a  risk  she 
could  have  changed  the  laughter  of  her  friends 
and  relatives  into  admiration,  tinctured  with  a 
little  mild  envy  ! 

The  James  St.  Glairs'  was  the  last  house  on  the 
bay,  and  soon  they  would  have  passed  it.  They 
tried  not  to  show  themselves,  but  she  knew  they 
were  peeping. 

Now  it  was  all  done  with ;  and  how  sweet  the 
air  was,  and  the  great  river  looked  so  blue,  and 
the  sunlight  came  so  red  from  the  low  western 
sky.  Kingshaven  was  surely  blessed — blessed  in 
every  way.  So  secluded,  so  religious,  so  culti- 
vated and  educated,  so  different  from  the  outside 
world  with  its  dreadful  vulgar  progress  and  new 
inventions.  Richard  Denny  always  said  that 
after  a  visit  to  Kingshaven,  he  regretted  the  duty 
that  kept  him  away  from  it.  Yes,  the  quiet  and 
the  seclusion  were  the  pleasantest  things  ;  even 
the  steamboat  twice  a  week  was  more  than  was 
desirable  ;  it  was  bringing  occasional  excursions 
of  very  common  people — very  rougli  people.  For 
one,  she  preferred  the  old  days  when  the  gen- 
tlemen used  their  own  row-boats  to  go  to  Will- 
iamstown  and  Everglade  ;  or  their  own  wagons 
and  carriages  for  travelling  inland. 

The  thought  of  this  inland  travel  brought  her 
mind  back  to  Baldy.  They  were  quite  out  of 
the  town  now,  with  the  shining  water  on  one 
side  and  groves  of  oaks  or  reaches  of  pine  on  the 
other  ;  the  warm  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  pines, 
with  sometimes  quite  strong  whiffs  from  the  salt 
260 


BALDY 

mud,  which  Miss  Maria  liked  just  as  well,  having 
grown  up  to  it.  Jack  was  looking  straight  ahead 
now,  so  that  she  could  not  see  his  face  ;  but  there 
was  a  droop  to  his  high  hat  and  a  curve  to  his 
blue-coated  shoulders  that  made  Miss  Maria  more 
than  suspect  that  he  was  asleep.  "  How  care- 
less !"  she  said,  aloud,  glad  of  an  opening  for  her 
projected  sermon,  which  was  to  end  with  the 
solemn  announcement  of  Baldy's  approaching 
deposition.  "  Suppose  something  should  frighten 
the  horse?  Jack!" — raising  her  voice — "Jack, 
is  it  possible  that  you  are  asleep  f  Asleep,  and 
I,  your  mistress,  alone  in  this  carriage,  and  en- 
tirely unprotected  ?  I  am  astonished  at  you — 
at  a  man  of  your  age  being  so  reckless  !  Really, 
Jack — really,  I  am  shocked  /" 

"No,  m'am  —  no,  missis,  I  ain't  'sleep,  m'am," 
Jack  protested  ;  his  head  was  well  up  now,  and 
his  shoulders  straightened,  "No,  m'am  ;  I  'clay 
I  'ain't  been  'sleep  ;  I  des  been  steddyin'  —  yes, 
m'am." 

"  You  were  asleep,  Jack,"  Miss  Maria  pursued, 
relentlessly.  "You  were  almost  nodding  —  yes, 
actually  nodding !  and  at  any  moment  the  horse 
might  have  run  away  !  Because  he  has  no  tail, 
that  is  no  reason  why  he  should  be  trusted  im- 
plicitly ;  he  still  has  four  legs,  and  I  dare  say  can 
run  very  briskly — very  briskly,  indeed.  And  I 
am  surprised,  Jack,  that  a  person  with  such 
Christian  teaching  as  you  have  had  should  at- 
tempt such  bold  deceit ;  I  am  shocked  !  And  the 
harness,  Jack,  looks  quite  dingy.  I  am  sure  that 
261 


BALDY 

you  have  not  paid  it  the  slightest  attention  for  a 
long  time;  it  needs  a  good  rubbing  —  a  most 
thorough  cleaning ;  I  am  ashamed  of  it.  It  is 
much  worse  than  the  horse's  tail,  for  that  we  can- 
not help,  while  the  harness  shows  great  careless- 
ness and  neglect.  And  I  observed  this  morning 
that  the  stable-yard  had  not  been  raked  or  swept 
in  some  time  ;  and  the  cellar,  too,  needs  cleaning 
out.  Really,  you  seem  to  be  neglecting  every- 
thing, and  in  addition  trying  to  deceive  me,  as 
you  did  just  now." 

"  Miss  'Ria,  I  'clay,  Miss  'Ria,  I  'ain't  been 
'sleep,"  Jack  reiterated;  "no,  m'am,  I  'ain't;  en 
I  rub  de  hahness  good  dis  berry  day — yes,  m'am, 
dis  berry  day.  En  f uh  de  ya'd,  dem  boy  Mingo 
en  Moses,  is  f  uh  dem  to  rake  awl  de  ya'd  ;  I  too 
ole  f  uh  rake  ya'd  ;  en  who  ebber  yeddy  say  coach- 
man rake  ya'd  ?  None  o'  my  ole  Mawsa  fambly 
'ain't  say  nuttin  like  dat — no,  m'am.  Miss  'Ria, 
you  know  say  yo'  Pah  'ain't  nebber  meek  no 
coachman  rake  ya'd." 

"  It  is  for  you  to  make  Moses  and  Mingo  do 
their  work,"  Miss  Maria  went  on,  sternly.  "  You 
have  only  one  horse  to  take  care  of,  and  two  boys 
to  help  you,  and  it  is  shocking  that  things  are  not 
in  better  order.  Your  old  master  would  be  sur- 
prised to  see  your  carelessness,  Jack,  for  he  told 
me  that  in  giving  you  to  be  my  coachman  he  was 
giving  me  a  fine  boy  and  a  faithful  servant. 
Forty  years  ago  that  was,  Jack — think  of  it,  forty 
years  ago — and  then  see  how  horrid  that  harness 
looks  !  Why,  the  overseer's  harness  would  look 
262 


BALDY 

as  well.  Forty  years  ago,  Jack,  my  father  gave 
you  to  be  my  coachman,  and  all  that  time  you 
have  been  cared  for,  and  your  first  wife  and  chil- 
dren, and  now  Kizzy  and  this  other  baby — think 
of  it !" 

"  Yes,  m'am,  en  I  is  awl  w'at  my  Mawsa  say  I 
is — yes,  m'am  ;  en  full  de  ya'd  en  dem  boy,  dey 
'mos'  meek  me  loss  awl  my  'ligion.  I  lick  um, 
en  you  stop  me,  'kase  you  say  I  gwine  hot  um, 
en  you  know  say  if  nigger  ain't  lick,  nigger  ain't 
no  'count ;  en  I  cahn'  meek  dem  boy  wuck,  cep- 
pen  I  lick  um." 

"  You  can  order  them,  Jack,  and  see  that  they 
do  not  stop  ;  and  besides,  you  do  not  whip  them, 
you  beat  them,  and  I  cannot  have  it.  But,  be- 
sides the  yards,  there  is  the  cellar." 

"  En  w'at  ail  de  cellar,  Miss  'Ria?" 

"  Why,  it's  dirty,  very  dirty.  I  was  very  much 
ashamed  yesterday  when  your  Mass  John  went 
in  to  see  what  I  needed  from  the  plantation ;  it 
looked  horrid.  Now  that  is  your  work,  and  not 
the  boys',  and  you  must  see  to  it." 

"Yes,  m'am;  you  'ain't  say  nuttin'  befo'  now 
'bout  de  cellar,  en  I  'ain't  know  say  'e  been 
dutty." 

A  silence  ensued,  while  Baldy  jogged  along  the 
white  road,  and  Jack  flapped  the  reins  on  his  back 
by  way  of  encouragement.  There  was  no  other 
ground  for  fault-finding  that  Miss  Maria  could 
think  of,  and  she  felt  somewhat  at  a  loss,  seeing 
that  she  had  not  yet  driven  Jack  into  making  an 
excuse  of  Baldy's  tail,  as  she  wished  to  do  in  order 
263 


BALDY 

to  break  the  dreadful  news  to  him  with  a  plain 
reason  behind  it. 

Thimp,  thump  ;  thamp,  thump,  Baldy  pounded 
along,  and  old  Jack,  looking  straight  ahead,  moved 
his  lips  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  Presently  he 
made  a  little  grunting  sound,  and  immediately 
Miss  Maria  began  again. 

"You  need  not  grumble,  Jack,"  she  said,  at  a 
venture,  and  yet  decidedly  ;  "  you  are  neglecting 
your  work,  neglecting  it  shamefully.  Now  why 
is  this  ?  You  have  no  more  to  do  than  usual ; 
why  should  you  not  do  it  properly  ?" 

"  I  t'ink  say  I  been  doin'  prop'ly,  Miss  'Ria  ; 
t'ings  looks  des  de  same  like  dey  always  looks  to 
me;  en  I  rub  de  hahness  dis  berry  day — yes,  m'am." 

"And  what  else  have  you  done  to-day?"  Miss 
Maria  pursued.  "  Now  tell  me  exactly  what  has 
been  your  day's  work." 

"  Well,  m'am,  I  git  up  dis  mawninV'  Jack  began, 
literally,  "  en  f us  fing  I  do  I  milk  de  cow  f uh  Sis 
Lucy,  'kase  she  han'  hot  she ;  den  I  'tend  to  de 
horse,  en  eat  me  breakf uss  ;  den  I  rake  in  de 
gahden,  en  trim  de  rose  -  bush  what  is  runnin' 
roun'  de  muttle-bush — " 

"  The  myrtle  -  bush  ?"  Miss  Maria  interrupted. 
"I  don't  remember  any  rose  that  touches  the 
myrtle-bush." 

"  Yes,  m'am,  dat  yaller  -  white  rose  is  iorebber 
gittin'  to  de  muttle-bush — yes,  m'am  ;  den  I  rake 
de  gahden  wey  I  trim  de  rose-bush,  en  teck  de 
trash  'way  ;  den  I  gone  to  de  stable  'gen,  to  de 
horse — " 

264 


BALDY 

"  What  for  ?"  Miss  Maria  struck  in,  quickly. 

"Fuh  gie  um  some  water,  Miss  'Ria,"  was  an- 
swered, disarmingly  ;  "  co'se  horse  muss  drink — 
yes,  m'am  ;  den  I  gone  to  de  kitchen  fuh  light  me 
pipe,  en  Sis  Lucy  say  please  fuh  shell  de  pease, 
'kase  she  han'  hot  she  'gen ;  den  Kizzy  git  bex, 
en  say  if  I  gwine  wuck,  I  muss  wuck  fuh  she  ; 
den  I  come  'way,  'kase  I  know  say  if  I  wuck  fuh 
Kizzy  one  time,  I  ain't  nebber  gwine  git  done,  en 
I  gone  to  de  stable  'gen — " 

"What  for?"  Miss  Maria  demanded,  with  in- 
creased eagerness. 

"  To  git  'way  from  Kizzy,  m'am,"  Jack  returned, 
with  unmistakable  earnestness.  "  Miss  'Ria,  you 
ain't  know  dat  nigger  like  I  know  um  ;  heaper  time 
I  sorry  say  I  married  Kizzy,  'kase  Kizzy  bodder 
me  to  de't' — yes,  m'am.  Miss*  Ria,  Kizzy  is  a  tarry- 
fyin'  gal,  en  I  gone  to  de  stable  kase  I  know  say 
Kizzy  ain't  gwine  come  dey,  'kase  I  done  tell  um 
say  if  'e  come  to  de  stable  I  gwine  teck  dat  car- 
riage whip  en  lick  um,  so  'e  'fraid." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  in  the  stable  ?" 

"Dat  is  de  time  I  rub  de  hahness,  m'am." 

"  And  after  that  ?" 

Jack  paused  a  moment ;  as  long  as  he  had 
served  his  mistress  he  had  never  seen  her  in  this 
inquisitorial  mood,  and  it  puzzled  him  ;  besides, 
his  dignity  was  hurt  that  at  his  time  of  life  he 
should  be  taken  to  task  like  a  boy,  and  into  his 
next  answer  there  crept  a  note  of  impatience. 

"Den  I  gone  to  me  dinner,  Miss  'Ria  —  please 
Gawd,  I  hab  to  eat !" 

265 


BALDY 

"  Of  course,"  Miss  Maria  assented  ;  "  and  you 
know  quite  well,  Jack,  that  I  never  grudge  my 
servants  anything  that  they  need — I  am  a  good 
mistress,  Jack,  and  you  know  it ;  but  I  must  find 
how  it  is  that  you  do  not  get  time  to  keep  things 
in  good  order.  Now,  what  did  you  do  after  din- 
ner ?" 

"I  res'  a  minute,  Miss  'Ria,  tell  I  smoke  me 
pipe  ;  den  I  gone  to  see  what  Moses  en  Mingo  is 
doin',  m'am,  en  meek  um  clean  de  stable  ;  den  I 
gie  de  horse  some  mo'  water ;  den  I  unwrop  'e 
tail—" 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Miss  Maria,  with  a  long  breath  of 
relief,  as  at  last  she  caught  the  excuse  she  had 
been  pursuing.  "T/tat  is  it,  Jack,  that  is  the  root 
of  everything  !  At  last  you  acknowledge  it — the 
horse's  tail.  You  spend  so  much  time  on  the 
horse's  tail,  Jack,  that  everything  in  the  yard  and 
garden  and  cellar  looks  wretchedly,  and  I  am  con- 
tinually mortified  ;  and  I  tell  you  plainly,  Jack, 
that  I  cannot  put  up  with  it  any  longer.  Then 
this  afternoon  you  were  quite  disrespectful  about 
driving  down  the  bay,  and  quite  in  a  bad  temper 
about  it ;  it  has  really  reached  a  point  beyond 
my  patience." 

"Miss  'Ria,"  poor  Jack  cried,  "I  'ain't  plait  dis 
horse  tail  but  two  time  to-day — " 

"  I  watched  you  myself,  Jack,  and  saw  you 
spend  quite  a  half-hour  on  it ;  then  you  are  sul- 
len and  disagreeable  if  people  laugh — " 

"Yes,  m'am,"  Jack  struck  in,  "it  do  hot  my 
feelin's,  Miss  'Ria,  when  de  people  laugh  at  we ; 
266 


BALDY 

you  Pah  wouldn't  like  it,  Miss  'Ria  ;  en  you  ain't 
to  say  like  it,  nurrer  ;  en  I  ain't  usen  to  see  my 
Mawsa  fambly  laugh  at — no,  m'am,  I  ain't." 

"  Of  course  not !"  Miss  Maria  cried,  with  a  ring 
of  triumph  in  her  voice — "  of  course  not,  and  so  I 
must  get  another  horse." 

To  Miss  Maria's  excited  mind  the  universe 
seemed  to  pause  for  a  moment — even  Baldy's 
stolid  trot  seemed  "far  away  on  alien  shores," 
and  the  wind  and  the  water  had  ceased  to  sound 
— one  moment,  then  Jack  laid  the  reins  down 
on  the  dash-board  and  folded  his  hands.  Miss 
Maria's  eyes  grew  big  with  astonishment. 

"  Jack,"  she  demanded,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Miss  'Ria,"  was  answered,  solemnly,  "  I  cahn' 
stan'  it  —  no,  m'am,  I  cahn'  stan'  it  if  you  say 
dat  'gen.  No,  m'am,  Miss  'Ria,  if  you  say  dat 
ting  'gen,  I  gwine  git  out  dis  carriage  en  walk 
home,  en  leff  you  right  yer  in  de  broad  road.  I 
cahn'  stan'  it,  Miss  'Ria,  fuh  sell  dis  horse." 

Miss  Maria  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  about 
her  as  if  the  sky  had  fallen.  To  be  left  alone  in 
the  carriage — alone  with  a  horse — so  far  from 
home  !  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  top  of  the 
vehicle.  "Lord,  I  am  oppressed  !"  she  said,  sol- 
emnly. There  was  silence  for  a  moment ;  then 
Jack,  with  mingled  feelings  of  awe  for  Miss  Ma- 
ria's invocation  and  of  satisfaction  for  having 
carried  his  point,  took  up  the  reins  once  more, 
and  they  proceeded  on  their  way. 

Reaching  the  usual  end  of  the  drive,  they 
turned  and  drove  back  to  the  town  in  absolute 
267 


BALDY 

silence,  Miss  Maria  not  speaking  even  when  Jack 
chose  to  go  home  by  secluded  back  streets.  But 
she  was  angry,  and  her  thoughts  were  busy. 
Something  must  be  done  to  punish  Jack  ;  such 
behavior  could  not  be  overlooked — but  what  ?  If 
she  told  her  brother  John,  or  her  brother-in-law, 
or  her  nephew  Charles,  it  would  be  looked  on  as 
a  joke,  and  there  would  be  the  laugh  against  her 
through  the  whole  connection.  That  must  not 
be — she  must  manage  this  thing  herself.  She 
thought  about  it  a  great  deal  that  afternoon,  and 
when  her  sister  came  in  that  evening  to  say  that 
Charles  had  secured  a  very  fine  horse  for  her, 
Miss  Maria  felt  as  if  Jack's  punishment  had  come 
thus  quickly  in  answer  to  her  prayer.  Besides 
this  divine  judgment,  however,  she  must  find 
some  way  of  showing  her  displeasure  to  Jack,  dis- 
tinctly and  personally — some  pointed  way. 

The  next  morning  she  was  still  undecided  when 
Jack  came  to  ask  for  the  key  in  order  to  clean 
the  cellar ;  then  an  idea  came  to  her.  She  pre- 
ceded him  to  the  cellar,  and  opening  the  door, 
showed  him  what  was  to  be  done,  telling  him 
to  call  her  when  he  had  finished ;  then,  going 
up  once  more  to  the  back  piazza,  she  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  with  her  hands  clasped  behind 
her,  humming  to  herself.  Up  and  down,  up  and 
down,  shaking  her  head  when  she  was  not  sing- 
ing, and  rehearsing  the  words  she  would  pres- 
ently say  to  Jack.  Sometimes  her  eyes  would 
flash  as  she  remembered  the  provocation  ;  then 
she  would  smile  to  think  what  a  severe  lesson 
268 


BALDY 

she  would  teach  him.  Up  and  down,  until  Jack 
came  to  say  that  the  work  was  finished  ;  then 
she  followed  him  once  more  to  the  cellar.  She 
almost  relented  when  she  saw  how  carefully  he 
had  done  his  work ;  evidently  he  was  trying  to 
please  her,  but  it  would  not  be  right  to  allow 
his  behavior  to  pass  unrebuked. 

"It  looks  very  well,"  she  said,  heartily — "very 
well  indeed  ;  it  should  always  look  so,"  she  went 
on,  while  Jack  rearranged  some  jars  on  one  of 
the  shelves  ;  "  and  you  should  never  behave  nor 
speak  to  me  as  you  did  yesterday,  Jack,  never ; 
and  now  I  shall  give  you  a  little  time  to  think 
it  over,"  and  stepping  out  briskly,  she  shut  the 
door,  locking  Jack  into  the  cellar. 

"  Miss  'Ria  !"  he  called. 

"  No,  Jack  ;  you  deserve  it." 

"Lemme  out,  missis." 

"  No,  Jack." 

"  Miss  'Ria,  I  is  ole  man,  m'am." 

"  And  should  know  better,  Jack." 

"  Miss  'Ria,  how  long  is  you  gwine  to  keep  me 
yer  ?" 

"  Until  you  are  in  a  better  mind,  Jack." 

"  Miss  'Ria,  is  you  gwine  tell  Kizzy  ?  Miss 
'Ria,  if  you  tell  Kizzy,  m'am,  I  gwine  to  lick  um, 
sho.  I'll  be  'bleeged  to  lick  dat  gal  if  you  tell  um 
dis  t'ing."  His  voice  was  rising. 

"  I  shall  not  tell  Kizzy,"  Miss  Maria  promised. 
Then  she  went  up-stairs,  and  resumed  her  walk 
up  and  down  the  piazza. 

Jack  meanwhile,  sitting  on  a  box  in  the  cellar, 
269 


BALDY 

pondered  the  situation.  That  his  mistress  had 
outwitted  him  was  very  clear,  and  he  rubbed  his 
head  in  wonder. 

"  Miss  'Ria  is  sma't,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  I 
nebber  know  say  Miss  'Ria  is  sma't  es  dis.  She 
ketch  me  in  dis  trap  same  liker  fox.  I  nebber 
t'ink  say  Miss  'Ria  would  do  sicher  t'ing.  White 
people  is  sma't,  dat  is  de  Lawd's  trute.  En  awl 
my  Mawsa  chilluns  is  sma't,  but  I  nebber  know 
say  Miss  'Ria  is  dis  tricky — nebber.  En  if  dat 
nigger  Kizzy  ebber  know  dis  t'ing,  I'll  be  'bleeged 
to  lick  um,  en  no  mistake.  She'll  know  what  she 
laugh  at  when  I  done  wid  um.  Please  Gawd  dat 
gal  '11  laugh  out  de  turrer  side  she  mout'.  I 
dun'no  what  I  married  dat  gal  fuh  anyhow. 
'Lizer  wuz  a  settled  'oman,  en  she  nebber  hab  no 
swonger  way,  en  I  'ain't  good  bury  um  'fo'  dis 
gal  Kizzy  fool  me.  But  if  she  show  she  teet' 
'bout  dis  t'ing,  I'll  bruck  Miss  'Ria  carriage  whip 
on  she  back — dat  I  will — yes." 

The  cellar  was  dark  and  cool,  and  presently 
Jack's  head  went  back  against  the  wall,  and  a 
snore  resounded  through  the  room,  so  that  he  did 
not  hear  the  little  tumult  that  arose  in  the  yard. 

Miss  Maria,  however,  held  her  breath  for  a 
moment.  What  was  it  the  washerwoman  was 
crying  out  ?  Fire  !  Good  heavens  !  And  there 
were  the  flames  leaping  out  of  the  wash-house 
chimney. 

"  Kizzy  !"  she  called.  "  Mingo  !  Moses  !  Lucy  ! 
Look  !  the  wash-house  is  on  fire  !  Bring  water ! 
Come  and  help  Julia  !" 

270 


BALDY 

Down  flew  Kizzy  ;  out  rushed  the  cook  ;  Moses 
and  Mingo  and  half  a  dozen  smaller  darkies  tum- 
bled out  of  the  stable. 

"  My  Lawd  !  it's  ironin'  day,"  cried  Kizzy,  "  en 
dey  ain't  no  water  in  de  tubs.  Wey  is  dat  ole 
nigger  Jack  ?" 

"Uncle  Jack  in  de  cellar,"  cried  the  boys. 
Then  all  the  negroes  rushed  to  the  cellar. 

"  Come  out  dey,  you  ole  tarrypin !"  Kizzy 
called.  "  Enty  you  know  say  missis  house  is 
bunnin'  down  ?  Come  out,  come  out !" 

Jack  was  dazed  with  sleep,  and  he  realized 
only  that  his  young  wife  was  rattling  the 
door. 

"  You  wait  till  I  git  dat  carriage  whip  ober  yo' 
back,"  he  retorted. 

Kizzy  rushed  away.  "  Missis,"  she  cried,  breath- 
lessly, "Jack  in  de  cellar,  m'am,  en  woan  come 
out — no,  m'am." 

"  Bring  all  the  water  down  out  of  the  house," 
Miss  Maria  commanded.  "  I  will  see  to  Jack." 
And  trembling  in  every  limb  she  went  down  to 
the  cellar  and  unlocked  the  door.  "Jack,  Jack, 
come  quickly,  the  wash-house  is  on  fire  !  Quickly  ! 
Kizzy  is  up-stairs." 

Jack  needed  no  second  bidding,  but  ran  out  in- 
stantly to  the  scene  of  the  catastrophe.  In  a  few 
moments,  before  Jack  got  there  almost,  it  was 
all  over,  and  Kizzy,  rushing  out  breathlessly  with 
two  pitchers  of  water,  found  herself  too  late  for 
anything  but  Jack's  lofty  sneers. 

"  Hollerin'  en  hollerin'  'bout  one  ole  chimbly," 
271 


BALDY 

he  said,  "  scarin'  Miss  'Ria  to  de't'  for  nuttin.  I 
know  say  Kizzy  ain't  hab  nuttin  but  mout',  but 
I  t'ink  say  Sis  Julia  en  Sis  Lucy  is  hab  eye — hab 
eye  'nough  fuh  see  house  from  chimbly."  He 
wondered  how  much  they  knew,  these  women. 
"  I  yeddy  you  holler  so  loud  I  t'ink  say  de  chu'ch 
is  bunnin',"  he  went  on,  u  en  come  to  see  des  one 
ole  chimbly." 

"  Talk,"  Kizzy  retorted— "  talk.  Dat's  awl  you 
kin  do.  Sleepin'  in  de  cellar  wid  de  do'  lock.  I 
gwine  meek  missis  onderstan'  'bout  dat  —  you 
wait." 

"  That  will  do,  Kizzy,"  Miss  Maria  commanded. 
"Jack,  some  one  is  rattling  at  the  stable -yard 
gate." 

"  Hullo,  Jack  !  open  this  confounded  gate." 

"  Dat's  Mass  Chahlie,"  and  Jack  ran  to  undo 
the  fastenings. 

All  stood  silent  as  Charles  St.  Clair  rode  in 
sitting  sidewise  on  a  barebacked  horse. 

"  Here  he  is,  Aunt  'Ria,"  he  called,  "  as  gentle 
as  a  lamb  and  as  strong  as  an  ox,  and  with  a 
beautiful  tail  warranted  to  last.  See  ?" 

Jack's  eyes  were  like  saucers. 

"  Bring  out  Baldy,  Jack,"  Mr.  St.  Clair  went 
on,  "  and  let  Moses  ride  him  over  home.  We'll 
send  him  out  to  the  plantation  until  his  tail  grows 
out  again." 

Somehow  it  was  not  so  hard  to  let  Baldy  go  as 

Jack  had  imagined,  and  that   afternoon   as   he 

drove  Miss  Maria  down  the  bay  behind  the  fine 

new  horse  he  sat  up  very  straight,  looking  proud- 

272 


BALDY 

ly  from  side  to  side,  while  Miss  Maria  nodded 
gayly  to  the  congratulations  waved  in  handker- 
chiefs and  hands,  and  given  in  "nods  and  becks 
and  wreathed  smiles." 


THE   END 


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